


Captain of Death

by Flower_Flame_Princess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Amnesia, Amnesiac Steve Rogers, Artist Steve Rogers, BAMF Steve Rogers, BDSM, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fighter Steve Rogers, Fluff and Smut, Forced Fighting, Gang Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Innocent Steve Rogers, Kidnapped Steve Rogers, Kidnapping, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Bucky Barnes, Memory Loss, Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, Mobster Bucky Barnes, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Praise Kink, Protective Bucky Barnes, Russian Bucky Barnes, Russian Mafia, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Temporary Amnesia, Top Bucky Barnes, Touch-Starved, Virgin Steve Rogers, dangerous Steve Rogers, ring fighting, touch-starved Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 105,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24588187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess
Summary: They call him the Captain of Death.That’s because he’s never lost a fight.Being forced into the ring every week was as shitty a life as any could have, but it was fight or die, and Steve was not going to die. It was his life; earning loads of money from bets, and never seeing any penny himself, getting punched and kicked on the regular, and beating others half to death. A miserable life.Then enter James Barnes, head of the infamous Sevastyanov family. He’s heard of this fighter they call the Captain, and he’s interested. It’s not the first time some rich asshole showed interest, but Steve can’t help but feel that this is different somehow. He just doesn’t understand why Barnes looks so familiar. Like a friend of his youth he had long forgotten about, or perhaps a part of a future that has not yet been.[On a short pause to start planning the story all out again]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 245
Kudos: 466





	1. Throw Me in the Deep and Watch Me Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested: I have a Tumblr where I post snippets of this story, plus other Steve/Bucky related things as well. The URL is http://starstruckmyths.tumblr.com/ because for some damned reason I can't post links, they don't work.

The cement and brick roof was domed some twenty-five feet above them, like a shanty-town cathedral. He remembered that, when he had been younger, he would stamp, clap and call out into the vast expanse of the warehouse, just to hear it echo back to him, and when it rained, the droplets hit the roof in a loud rhythm like a million maracas. When it stormed, it was like thousands of bullets hailed down onto the building, an act from the heavens high above. He did not like storms. 

The whole expanse of the main room had turned into a perfect pandemonium tonight, and the din that rose from the crowd was nearly deafening. The people assembled inside the empty hall, eager for tonight’s show. They were brought to life, taken over by the sheer thrill of adrenaline that flowed through their bodies, stirring up their bloodlust. Fists pounded the air; people formed a wide circle to chant and scream. They were far away from the city, so there would not be a single man to hear them anyway, so they could scream their throats sore.

After the latest contester had been dragged off towards the side of the large room, a new one stepped out onto the dust and dirt, which was heavily stained with blood of the former matches, smeared out across the floor where practical death sentences had been given. The audience cheered wildly, even though they had no idea who this new man was, other than he was a just another jacked up man looking for some quick cash of a fight. The guy had his chest bared, scars and scabs showing to all those around him.

Next, attention turned to the other man that stepped forward. A man with a crippling debt he was still trying to pay off by fighting, trying to give the audience a good show though they knew he lost quite often. He smiled, and raised his fist to the air. Wild response arose from the audience. Both men nodded towards the referee, who gave the wave to start the fight. They circled. The man in debt made a quick jab forward, but the other quickly stepped as he backed up. Missed. They circled more, until the both of them attacked with the raw force of a wild animal, pounding at any piece of flesh they could find, using nails and teeth and whatever they could.

It was an animalistic fight, where nothing mattered but the outcome. There were no rules, if you did not want it maimed you would have to make sure you protected it. You could hit anywhere you liked, use whatever body part you liked. No weapons, that was the only rule. No knives or sticks or guns, nothing but bare bodies and a lot of show, like the primitive men of the past had fought.

The young man had been ignored when he told them primitives had used sticks and stones as weapons as well.

It was quite a gruesome fight; exactly what the crowd had been hoping for. Lately, it had been more show than actual blood, with wide gestures and half-punches, and they had gotten bored, angry even, that they did not get what they wanted. They wanted blood, and because no one here wanted a riot, the bosses had picked out a few men in debt and with rage, and put them up against each other. Desperation was a good motivator, but one should not underestimate the power of rage. The feeling of wanting to see another lay bleeding at your feet.

Of all fighters, Steve’s rage was known to be the strongest.

He would never truly understand, for he hated the fight. He hated the adrenaline that build in his chest, the sheer fire burning that drove him forward. He was not just fighting because they told him to. The punches he threw fed a never-satisfied hunger deep inside of him. A void that could not be filled, only temporarily numbed. The emptiness always returned, and he would sit quietly, silently longing for the next fight even though he hated it so much. Like a drug, he knew it was bad. He knew he should stop, but they kept pumping it into him, and he could only swallow as they had his jaws pried open.

On a plastic chair, placed against the far wall where he could still see the fight, sat a young man, legs kicking in the air, swiping them across the floor as they swung back and forth. His feet were bare. He owned a pair of worn-down sneakers that had once been white, but now looked smeared grey by all the dirt and dust and mud and other things he had stepped in, but he was not wearing them tonight. A dumb decision. The shoes were barely holding on, and a few holes had fallen even, that he had tried stitching back up with needle and thread, but at least they kept his feet warm. Now, he had nothing but his bare skin.

Not that his clothes were much better. The long sports pants he wore had a few holes in them as well, sown back shut many times. The color had long been washed out of his tank top shirt, and the fabric had thinned, so he was shivering in the breeze that seeped in through the cracks of the walls and doors.

The young man was staring at the wall, hard open as they saw nothing at all. His legs were not swinging in the care-free way that many would first assume. Each swing was more like a kick, sharp and pointed, as though trying to kick away invisible enemies, or trying to work out the trapped adrenaline that sat inside of him, but he had not been allowed to get up. With a quick movement, he brushed away the blonde bangs that flopped in front of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear where it would sag back down only a couple seconds later.

He yawned, deeply, a shiver old cold and fatigue rippling through his body. He curled further into himself, rubbing at his arms, hoping he had something, _anything_ , he could distract himself with. A pencil and a piece of paper was enough, it did not have to be something complicated. He just wanted something to distract him from the scent of blood mixed with sweat, and the cold that caressed his bare arms, slipping beneath his tank top. He yawned again.

Footsteps approached his small, uncomfortable seat. A person stood still next to him; a hand lain down on his shoulder. He could feel the heat seep through his being, the hand warm on his cool skin, and he moved a little closer, pushing up into the touch, shivering a little harder at his core.

"You cold?" the man asked, moving his arm hand up and down Steve’s arm.

Steve nodded in response, trying to move even further into the nice warmth, but the other pulled back, leaving him hollow at the absence of a warm touch. Steve almost glared at Rumlow, but he knew that glaring was a stupid idea and he was better off saying nothing at all. Doing nothing at all. It was not worth the fuss and the screaming. On busy nights like these, Rumlow was always quite busy and Steve would hate to call his wrath upon him by whining about the temperature, even though he was so cold.

"Hold on a little longer," Rumlow said, offering Steve nothing but words to keep himself warm with, "Maybe you’ll get a round later."

A round. Steve did not want a round. He wanted out. He wanted away. He wanted out of the dusty warehouse with the screaming voices and the scary faces.

"The Big Boss’ coming tonight," Rumlow then continued, "I expect you to be on your best behavior. Can that sarcasm, don’t be a little bitch, and don’t even think about going in against my orders, got it?"

Curbing the urge to sigh, Steve nodded as his answer. It was not that complicated. Big Boss. Coming tonight. Best behavior. Blah, blah, blah. Somewhere, he almost _wanted_ to act all difficult tonight, just for the sake of it. He would not, because he was not an idiot. He wanted to be away from Rumlow and his ilk, to have one day just for himself. No fights to be fought, no endless chores to be done, no prying eyes all day long, no nothing but his own wants and wills.

"I asked you if you got that," Rumlow repeated.

Being able to _just_ suppress the roll of his eyes, Steve failed to keep the boredom out of his voice. The indifference that shone through. "Whatever."

The hand shot back out, fingers gripping his hair and pulling. Not enough to actually hurt, but enough to get the intended message though. "I’m warning you, Rogers. Unless you want to spend an afternoon on the kitchen floor, paralyzed while we spit on you and kick your head like a football, I’d suggest you keep silent and do exactly as I say."

A small shiver crawled across Steve’s skin, like a zap of electricity. Unable to move. On the cool floor. Arms and legs weighing a ton. Eyes opened. People laughing. Pain in his back, his stomach, his head, his limbs. Paralyzed. Stuck. It was horrible, and Rumlow enjoyed every second it. With a small croak in his voice, Steve said, "Yes, sir."

The hand pulled back from his hair, releasing the strands, and the sharp sting faded to a dull throb. Steve kept himself from rubbing his head. Rumlow scoffed a little, eyes hard, then he walked away, and Steve stared at his back until he had disappeared out of sight. After Rumlow left, he turned his attention back to the crowd. If only he could get out of there, then he could finally do what the people he had stared at for so long did.

Staring was pretty much all he did these days. Staring at the people who had a life. Who had something outside of these fights, who went home to their house, to their life, picking up where they had left off, working a job, perhaps pleasing a spouse. From his seat against the wall, he fixed his gaze on the shouting and pounding masses, inventing a conversation with some of them he knew would never be.

He did not even try to hide his curiosity, his staring eyes, because he knew that it did not matter. _He_ did not matter. He was invisible. Staring at the fights was the only thing that kept his brain alive while he was not fighting himself, granting him observations of certain people, giving him new scenarios to think about at night, letting his mind wonder to places where he could interact with them, see them in his daily life.

With a sigh, he slumped on his seat, hands continuing to rub his chilly arms, yawns accompanied with shivers leaving his lips. He wished for a blanket, or a scarf. They had taken away his blanket, because he had not behaved. It was not his fault. They punished him too soon, one little misstep and he was back to square one. Now, he would have to do without the shabby piece of itchy fabric that was one of the only things that kept him warm. He wanted to go fetch his sweater jacket, but they said he could not leave the chair.

The fight was almost over. The two men panting and swaying on their legs. It would not be long now. Steve was bored. This was a fight like a hundred others he had seen, and even though the sweat and blood and the moving masses held him on edge, he was bored. He was ever vigilant, but he was calm, tired. Cold.

Nothing ever happened here.

As if on cue, the double doors of the warehouse burst open with the rattle of old wood and metal locks, giving way to five sets of shadows stalking into the room. Steve nearly expected the light bulbs overhead to flicker and shatter, showering the small group of people that strolled into the room as if they owned the place in a spray of white and red sparks. The light bulbs stayed intact, but Steve did feel a wave of frigid air wash over his body; though that could have just been the cold wind that blew inside behind them.

The clicking of cocked guns spun up to his ears, as the attendees armed themselves with guns, shotguns, knives, whatever weapon they had in close vicinity. Rumlow did as well, Steve noticed; the man pulled his gun and held it up before him, taking his position further away to the back. Typical. If the police came, Rumlow would be the first to have fled. Steve would not mind if it was the police, or if he would get arrested. Perhaps, if he had an empathic jury, they would understand that all of this was beyond his control and he was given the choice fight or die. Perhaps he would finally get to leave. He preferred a prison cell to this.

It was not the police, though. It was only a few men, walking in a V-formation much like a team of heroes in the movies, but Steve doubted they were anything like them. In the front stalked a man unlike anyone Steve had ever seen before, and his legs stilled in their pointed kicks as he sat up in piqued interest.

At the front of the line was a man that stirred a feeling of familiarity, though Steve was not able to put a name to the face, or quite say _where_ he had seen the man before. It was something that nagged the back of his mind, laying at the tip of his tongue but he could not quite figure out what it was, neither was he quite occupied with it for much longer. There were other things to put his mind to, and he would not have been able to tear his gaze away even if he wanted to.

As the man entered, it was as though every single thing around them was holding its breath. Even the wind slackened for a moment, as if unwilling to blow without the man’s permission, only giving a breeze just strong enough to curl around the man’s legs, having his coat sway along as he strode inside confidently, though prowling may have been the more fitting term. Steve knew no one who had mastered a walk like that, nothing rushed about him, yet everything heated. He was as calm and collected as though he had just returned home, but with the intensity of strolling towards a victim.

In the watery light of the moon that splashed in from behind him, the man’s hair, growing naturally without the slickness of products, shimmered softly, seeming an even richer brown. It fell just passed his lightly stubbled jaw from under his hat, that was placed at a jaunty angle on the back of his head, obscuring part of his eyes with a dark shadow. It gave him an appearance that was both effortlessly handsome and uncontrollably wild. The large, dark-colored military-style coat that reached to past his knees and fluttered with movement, was shrugged off as he continued his confident steps, and he folded it over his arm. 

Beneath the coat, the man was wearing fine clothes that probably cost more than Steve made in a year. That is– if he would have made anything in a year at all. The three-piece suit, crisp like a new banknote and hugging his body in a way that had Steve lean forward slightly, consisted of a dress shirt whiter than snow, a waistcoat pitch black like the night over it, and a black, unbuttoned jacket put on over both. His shoes were polished so well that they shone like mirrors, and Steve wondered if one could see their reflection in them.

With the shake of his head, he snapped himself out of his thoughts. The man was handsome, surely, but if he ran with the crowd in here, then Steve knew it was in a, _I’m a criminal and could cut your throat_ type of way. The way he carried himself, the way he stood, the way he strolled into the warehouse like he owned the place, and everyone cowered and tensed when he passed, it told Steve he was high up in whatever hierarchy they had going on around here. They turned their heads, stared, gazes sharp and cautious. A dangerous man. He exuded confidence, something steely and assured behind it. He was moving like sex on legs, and it was as terrifying as it was arousing.

The hat was taken off as well. With the flick of his wrist, the man had flipped it in his hand, passing it over to the hand that was already holding the large coat.

Steve blinked a few times, turning his eyes back down to his hands, suddenly realizing that he was, in fact, still cold. He groaned, having _just_ forgotten about that, and now he was shivering again. With his knuckles he rubbed up and down his arms, turning a little in the seat so he could pull up his legs, but there was too little space and his heels kept slipping. He was bare footed, so that meant he did not want them on the ground either. Stone and concrete were efficient thieves of body warmth, so his toes nearly froze off when he kept his feet down. There was no place on the seat, though, so he would just have to endure this a little longer.

Perhaps being allowed to go for a round was not that bad after all.

When he lifted his head back up, eyes roaming around the room where the volume had halved at least, he quickly found the man and his goons, as they were quite hard to miss. They were away from the crowd, that was still cheering on the two contesters, though less loudly than before. Somewhere, Steve was grateful for that, as his ears did not feel as though they were about to pop and bleed anymore.

The leader of the bunch was resting against a stone pillar not too far away with a face of utter nonchalance, as if he were merely waiting for a bus on a spring day, no care whatsoever. He was not slumped at all, his body was clearly too muscular for that, it was just as relaxed as his face. He was not smiling, though, his face plain like a loaf of bread, only so much more handsome. He was waiting for something, clearly, and Steve wondered what.

Hanging around the man like a thundercloud, was an aura of power. His whole appearance conferred an aura of authority and legitimacy on even the most questionable of people. It was something of prestige and wealth, something that would lure in most people, and Steve had no doubt he was quite popular.

With curiosity flaming in his eyes, Steve whispered to himself, _"Who are you?"_

As he let his body twitch on another shiver, he saw Rumlow approach the man, a certain hurry in his steps, seeming almost _nervous_. That was new. Rumlow was practically never nervous. He was always stoic, smug and cocky, as though he owned the entire city, and no one could ever go in against him. The look was often paired with hands planting themselves on his hips, back stretched to seem taller, and most of the time Steve did not have the energy to go in against him, knowing he would only get screamed at again. Going along with all that Rumlow said was clearly not the best plan either; it only added to his smugness that Steve wished to wipe off his face some day.

No-one got to be leader of HYDRA without having the morals of a vicious sewer rat, and Rumlow was a man right up that alley. They had somewhat of a ‘code’, if it could even be called that. The only rules that count are the most barbaric, scum-bag rules that benefit the ones high up, and exploited the ones at the bottom. Be loyal or be more savage, that was how they saw things. That was the way HYDRA estate was choosing to go. Like wild apes with stones tied to sticks all over again.

Lips moved, but Steve could not quite hear.

_"…pleasure … you … sir."_

He strained to listen, but did not dare make it too obvious, or get off the seat he was on. Rumlow had told him to stay there for the night, unless he was told otherwise. Bathroom break and emergencies were included, of course, but no water breaks or food breaks or even a break to simply stretch his legs. Like he was their dog. Steve supposed he _was_ their dog in many aspects. He hated it. 

The brunet man, the newcomer, said nothing, he was merely staring at Rumlow’s face in all calm regard. Someone else steps forward, a woman. She had hair like the brightest of fires dipped in the blood of her enemies, and it hung in loose curls around her shoulders. She was pretty, but she was flipping a knife in her hands with an eerie calmness, not even looking, a clear sign of intimidation and Steve knew she was not one to trifle. She took over the conversation, speaking words that Steve still could not hear over the rising tumult of the crowd. She spoke softer, so he only heard vague murmurs.

Then Rumlow spoke once more, his stance more relaxed so Steve supposed the conversation was going nicely. _"… business … ring … champion … bet?"_

The woman looked at the new man, who shrugged, seemingly uncaring. Steve was bouncing on the edge of his seat, wanting to come closer, to hear. In a split-second decision he stood up, edging forward, heart hammering away in his chest when he thought about what Rumlow would do to him for disobeying orders. He tried to shake it out of his head, and snuck even closer to the group of people, keeping himself near to the wall. Leaving his seat was perhaps not the best of ideas, but he was tired of having to sit there all evening. His feet were cold.

The next thing he saw was the woman handing Rumlow a large wad of cash. It was passed off to someone else whom Steve paid no mind, as he snuck just a little closer. He knew that if Rumlow saw him, it would be over. Listen to every order, Rumlow had said. Never go in against them. He did not care. Not tonight. Not when this stranger stood here, and everyone around him cowered in fear. He wanted to know who it was.

"Your champion," the man said, arms crossed before his chest as he stood, "The Captain of Death, he fights here, right?"

While Steve froze in his steps, heart beating a little bit faster at the mention of his alias, Rumlow nodded quickly. "Yeah, of course! Best we got around here. He’s the one who rakes in all that profit for you."

 _The Big Boss’s coming tonight_. This had to be him! The one who had orchestrated all of this. Or was he even bigger than the fights? Steve felt as though this man was bigger than just the HYDRA rats that scurried around the city, selling drugs and organizing ring fights. This man was more than that. Bigger. A name fluttered through his head; one he had heard whispered around the room more than once. The name of the man on top. The name of one of the most ruthless crime lords there was.

James Barnes.

Steve supposed the man looked like James Barnes, though he had only seen some vague pictures in old newspapers people had left behind. He had heard stories though. Stories that could make your blood curdle, and your heart stand still. He was not sure if they were all true, but judging from the man’s exterior, a lot of them had to be. That man was… Well. He was everything. He was everything and everywhere. Did everything. From money laundering, bribery and bootlegging, to outright murder.

And that man was asking about Steve.

"Is he really as good as people say," the man asked, tilting his head to the other side slowly to regard Rumlow from a different angle, "Or are you just jacking up that rumor to boost your ticket sale?"

Though Rumlow was clearly intimidated by the man, who may or may not be _the_ James Barnes, he was confident in his answer. "Never lost a fight. He didn’t get that nickname for nothing."

He most certainly did not. He never fought more than twice a week; they did not want to wear him down too much. The Captain of Death was their big crowd pleaser, and he was the best thing that happened to the HYDRA fight ring in a long time. They did not want to see that end any time soon. There had been quite a few rich bastards before, wanting to buy him over, but they had never succeeded. They wanted him for their own, their own fights, their own bodyguard. Steve had no idea what else he could bring to the table than fighting, but apparently it was enough to make them want to put down a considerable sum of money.

If this was really James Barnes, things would either turn out really bad for him, or really good.

Steve snuck a little closer, hiding behind one of the pillars, leaning against it with his back as though he belonged there, as to not rise any suspicions. The last thing he wanted was for the men to notice him, and get angry. He peeked around the edge, carefully.

"We build a good business here," Rumlow spoke, "All thanks to you, mister Barnes."

 _Mister Barnes_. So it was him after all.

It was strange to watch Rumlow dance and twirl to this man’s music, but Steve guessed that Barnes played the kind of tune you could just not ignore, because you knew that once you locked out the music, refused to dance to it, it would soon wrap around your throat and snap your neck. Or perhaps put a bullet in your head.

With that, James Barnes was the prime example of power, while Rumlow was nothing more than a drug peddler who ran an underground fight ring. Most his profits came from bets and addicts, and Steve supposed he had seen the occasional hooker wonder around the place, in their short shorts that covered only half their ass, and their thin shirts that left more skin bare than it covered. He had seen their unhappy, painted faces, with the dark lipstick and make-up, and the high heels to walk on. Some of them did enjoy it a little, but others seemed miserable. That was the way Rumlow treated his workers. That was the way Rumlow treated _him_.

In the meanwhile, James Barnes was the biggest real estate owner of the entire City of New York, owning quite literally half of it, since the Sevastyanov family had been buying up buildings even many years before Steve had been born. Barnes, being the head of the family, had a hand in almost everything, from the drug trade, to the rife of bootlegging through the state, and from illegal smuggling of all kinds of goods, to having police chiefs and senators on his payroll. Or so he had heard.

This was _his_ city, not anyone else’s, and Steve knew that one did not just get onto a watch-list unless there was a very good reason for it.

Perhaps Rumlow could be scary with his shouts and threats, but what Rumlow always threatened to do, Barnes _could_ do in the span of a mere minute and he would get away with it. No one would blink, no one would even dare to step up and do something about it, or even dare to _say_ anything about it. That was just not done, you did not talk back or try to take out James Barnes, it was an unspoken rule, and it would get you killed immediately. If not by Barnes, then by his second in command who may have been just as terrifying.

Outside, a dog barked. Not like one of the dogs they kept around here. It was a loud and shrill barking, yet also deep and growling. An angry dog. It was only one, but its barking echoed through the noisy room, and Steve could hear it even over the roar of the crowd. Mainly because the people were still wary of Barnes, still somewhat quiet. Or actually, _quieter_. The sound of the dog was like a gunshot through the air, and he hunched into himself against the pillar, flinching at each thunder strike. He didn’t like dogs.

A few moments later the barking stopped, but Steve had missed the rest of the conversation, too occupied trying to calm his frantic heart over the sound of barking and growling. People he could handle. Dogs were so much scarier. Faster. Meaner.

"Why not?" Barnes asked then, "Let’s get some life into this…" A pause fell, and Steve strained his neck to listen. " _Charming_ place of yours."

As Steve peeked around the edge, he saw Barnes grant Rumlow a small smile, though the gesture was almost condescending, his chin jutted up just enough give him that extra inch, and though he was about as tall as Rumlow, it made him seem much bigger. Rumlow did not like that, but he said nothing.

Rumlow was gritting his teeth; he had that clench to his jaw that gave it away. "Of course."

"Thank you," Barnes answered, but he didn’t mean it, that little smile still on his face, "Do you have a seat somewhere or do you make all your guests stand?"

That almost made Steve laugh, not because it was _that_ funny or anything, but because he had just not heard anyone ever talk to Rumlow like that. The man demanded respect, wanted people to fear him, in a way, and Barnes talked to him as they were old school rivals, like two little boys puffing out their chests at one another, though Barnes was much more dangerous and intimidating than Rumlow.

With a jerk of his head, Rumlow gestured Barnes to follow him. Against the other way, still with good view of the fights, there was a sit place. There were a few chairs, a small couch even, and three armchairs. They had only been there for around a year, long after Garrett left, because the old boss would never waste money to something like that. Rumlow obviously would.

Steve stayed hidden behind the pillar, quickly edging away when the group passed, but he could not take his eyes off of them. Especially not off Barnes’ back as he walked by; the man had broad shoulders and… Steve’s gaze dipped lower, a slight blush coloring his cheeks as he averted his eyes. The biggest armchair was claimed by Barnes right away. He leaned back in the chair casually, setting his arms on the rests at either side, making himself comfortable in the leather seat right in front of Rumlow, who was clearly trying to bite back anger.

The woman with red hair sat down in the other armchair with surprising grace, crossing one leg over the other as she was still playing with the knife in her hand. Both of them looked bored, which made Steve wonder why they were even here. They did not want to be here, Rumlow did not want them to be here, so why _were_ they here? Was it about money? About the fights? About…

About Steve?

Even from quite a few feet away Steve could feel the authority ooze from Barnes’ presence; it was in the way others altered their paths not to cross him, and how they would stand further back than what was customary. They did not want to get too close, nor did they want to be in his spot of attention. Having Barnes’ attention on you for no good reason was something one had to treat with care. Especially since those icy blue eyes betrayed absolutely nothing. 

The stare Barnes sported was not entirely stone-cold, like it may have seemed after a quick look. It was something almost… bored, actually. His eyes rested on a point, or a person, and he would stare just a tad longer than the average person would, which gave the people he stared at a feeling of unease. It would tickle that long suppressed feeling of predator watching a pray, Steve presumed.

Rumlow said something, but Steve could not hear it. He leaned forward, then his eyes widened when he saw Rumlow lift his hand and point at the far wall, head turning, only to stiffen, and for his face to twist in anger when he pointed at the empty seat where Steve had been sitting until a few minutes ago. _Shit_. Rumlow dropped his hand, looking around the room wildly, while Barnes had his eyebrows lifted. _Shit, shit, shit_. This was exactly what Rumlow had told him _not_ to do.

Before the shouting would begin, Steve came out from behind his pillar, standing in front of it instead and waiting for Rumlow to notice him. That did not take long, and even before Rumlow had beckoned and yelled, he rushed over to them, feet light and cold on the hard flooring.

"Rumlow, I was just–" Steve tried, but he was cut off.

"Shut it!" It was like a hiss, something that Rumlow did not want Barnes to hear, "I told you to stay in the chair."

"I had to go to the bathroom," Steve countered.

A pause. Rumlow looked in the direction Steve had come from, eyes narrowing, but then he worked his jaw and straightened his back, nodding a little. Steve peeked back, nearly sagging in relief when he had indeed hidden in the way to the bathroom. Lucky strike number one. Perhaps he would have more of those tonight. He could hope.

Rumlow turned back to Barnes, whose eyes were mostly on Steve now. "And yours?"

 _His?_ It took Steve a moment to understand, but when he got it, a small sigh left his lips, fatigue rolling up in his head like thunderclouds. They wanted him to fight. They were putting him up against one of Barnes’ men, for some fun, he supposed. Barnes made a little wave with his fingers and one of the muscled mountains stepped forward. He seemed meaner than the others, with a burn on his face, right at the side of his jaw, and small eyes like black beads. 

Truth be told, Steve did not believe this man was Barnes’ champion, not at all. Perhaps he was good, perhaps he was strong and tall and a good fighter, but he was not the champion. For a reason he could not quite put to words, he felt as though the woman with the red hair was much closer to be the champion than this man was. She looked like she packed a wallop, and she definitely was not afraid to get her hands dirty. But Barnes had picked this man, so this man he would fight.

Rumlow pulled him aside for a moment by grabbing his arm, turning their backs towards Barnes so they could speak in semi-privacy. Rumlow’s voice was hushed. "I cannot stress enough how important this is. Win this, and you’ll get two hundred points."

Two hundred points. Putting those with the points he already had meant he could get his blanket back. It got cold at night, he wanted something to wrap around him. He had a sweater jacket, but he still got cold legs and feet. If he won this, he could get himself a blanket. He nodded, to show he understood. He had to win this. Then Rumlow went to prepare the ring, heralding two new contesters that would fight, one of them being the Captain. The mass began to cheer.

The crowd loved to see their Captain fight.

"I’m gonna eat you alive," his opponent grinned, baring his grossly stained yellow teeth. Steve could even detect some black on there.

How nice would it be, to just have a home to go to, a spouse to go to, something to fall back on when things did not turn out quite right? He envied the people of the crowd, the people who came here with a large pile of cash and threw it around to bet on two brutes that caved in each other’s head. Most of the fights did not even have the kind of grace you would expect from a fighter, the kind of serenity from a ballerina keeping on her toes.

It was all just grabbing what you could, hitting whatever part was close, and trying to work your opponent to the ground so you could unleash a tirade of punches on the other’s face until they were beaten and bloody, and the fight had ended. It was not even a sport anymore, it was nothing like boxing for judo, there were no rules except the ‘no weapon’ rule, and though that was more realistic of the fights of old times, it was so animal-like, so disturbing to look at.

And soon, he would have to engage in that again. He had been bitten once, in his ankle. It had hurt, drawn blood. He remembered breaking the guy’s nose in response, asking Rumlow for disinfectant after the fight had ended, as he had no desire to get rabies. He wondered if this guy of Barnes had rabies. Probably some other disease, or at least something bad with those disgusting teeth that looked as though they would break did he bite down on a dry piece of bread. If he got bitten by those teeth, he would consider cutting off that body part.

While he thought, the man had grown visibly uneasy under Steve’s unwavering stare. After having observed the crowd for so long, Steve blinked less when he was in thought, or observant. Now as well, and without fully realizing he had stared down the tattooed man. That was a plus, he supposed, and he blinked.

"May wanna ask your buddies to preorder you a set of false teeth first," Steve answered, cocking his head to the other side. "Yours aren’t looking too good."

A soft snicker rose from the small group under Barnes’ rule. Barnes and the redhead stayed unmoving, but the tattooed man did not look particularly happy with Steve’s answer. He smashed his fist into the palm of his other hand, cracking the joints in both his knuckles and his neck. It was meant as intimidation, but it did not work. Steve had seen bigger. He had seen meaner. And he was not impressed.

Rumlow returned, pointing his thumb in the direction of the ring. "You’re up."

The ring was no more than a white, painted-on circle on the concrete floor of the warehouse. Concrete, that meant that it would hurt more when one fell on it, one of the major downsides. It was no sparring mat, not even close, but after having fought here for years Steve had gotten used to it. The man hit his fists in the air with short shouts to get the adrenaline flowing, pounding them on his chest even, as though he was some sort of gorilla, and Steve suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

From the corner of his eye he saw Barnes, sitting there idly, one leg crossed over the other, elbow on the armrest so his arm stuck up into the air, fingers brushing along his mouth thoughtfully. For a moment, Steve was distracted, turning his head slightly as to get a better view, before he was rudely interrupted by a loud war cry of the man in front of him, and he quirked an eyebrow. Wow. They really never did disappoint, did they?

Steve rolled his shoulders, awaiting Rumlow’s signal for the brawl to start.

When it came to the fight, all sense of honor or code was thrown out the window. All that mattered for both sides was the win and nothing was taken for granted. He had long ceased to try and talk his way out of it, there was no surrender, there was no peace, they refused any terms he tried setting because it was the thrill of the fight that they wanted. There was not even a point to it, they just wanted them to fight like rabid dogs and cheer for the one that won.

Before the loud bang of the gong had the chance to fade away, his opponent had already charged with a mighty cry. It was such a stark contrast to Steve’s tactics, who preferred the calm and silent way, instead of the loud, aggressive way. He was not a loud person, and letting out his own war cry took too much energy and enthusiasm that he just did not have. So instead, he stood silently, dodging to the side in one fluent move, and his enemy stumbled passed. Steve twirled around in his dodge, so that he faced the other man once more.

The second charge came, and this time, Steve let it happen. He stepped forward, bringing out his own attack as he tried to aim for the throat. His opponent dodged his attack, spinning to the side before striking out a fist himself. It hit Steve in the face, and he stumbled back, hearing the roar of the crowd around him. It was alright. Just a punch. He has had way worse than that, but it did show that the man in front of him was good. He threw his own punches, stepping sideways and sideways again. He managed to hit the man against his left bicep, his chest and in his stomach, once. It had him panting and groaning, but the guy came right back up.

It was time to set the rage free. He let it cloud his eyes, fill his ears, beat his heart. He let it take over, knowing it was fight or die. And he was not going to die. 

Then the other set the attack, now pissed off good. He charged with the force of a bull, and Steve had been a little too late to dry and dodge it again. He was caught in the man’s attack, falling towards the ground, but he was able to drag the other down with him. His opponent reached a hand out for Steve’s throat, but Steve lifted his legs up and wrapped them around the other’s neck. He growled angrily, trying to wriggle his way out to escape the grip.

Steve rolled to the left with his legs still around the opponent’s neck, so they were both lying on their side, and squeezed harder, trying to choke the other with his thighs. The man cursed, wheezing. He got a grip of Steve and hit his fist against Steve’s leg, turning and twisting, and Steve let go. They both rolled over the ground in opposite directions. The crowd cheered, stamping their feet on the ground.

Before the other had a chance to properly get to his feet, Steve jumped up, then placed one hand on the ground again to kick up his leg to the man. His foot hit the man’s face, who then stumbled backwards in a haze. Steve ran forwards, going right for the man’s personal space. He placed one foot on the man’s upper leg, just above his knee, and used it to launch himself further up in the air.

As the man tried to comprehend what was happening, Steve had already folded his legs around the man’s neck again, and, having found the right position, he threw himself backwards. While the man fell forwards by his weight, Steve’s body leaned back so much that he came almost parallel to the other’s body. His head went through the space between the man’s legs, then he held his elbows up in front of him, so he landed safely on his arms while his opponent fell flat on his face. There was a scream, blood began to flow.

After he had wiped the blood away from his nose, which had little use as it kept flowing, the man ran towards Steve for another attack. He lashed out, just managing to scrape across Steve’s chest, but it did insignificant damage. When he charged once more, Steve bounced to the side just in time so that he stumbled passed, and Steve planted his fist in his back, causing him to fly forwards into the quickly parting crowd, crashing onto the floor with a dull _thud_.

The man stumbled back, seething with rage and that would be his downfall. Steve punched him in his face and against his side. The intruder swung his fist back at him, but Steve caught the arm, quickly dived underneath it so that he was at the back of the man, and folded the arm against his back. Another hard kick in his knee cavities forced him to fall down on his knees. The rage pounded in his head, filling his every fiber and he breathed fast, nearly deaf to the screams of the audience around them.

An elbow was planted into Steve’s stomach, and he doubled over for a second. A second was all the man needed to roll over the floor, push himself up and lift his leg to kick the young man in the chest. Steve, however, recovered fast and once again caught the fist that was going for his face. Steve punched the man’s elbow and forced it into an impossible angle; they both heard a snap and the opponent screamed in pain and shock. Steve kicked the man to the ground and took a brief moment to catch his breath. He never needed long for that.

Steve walked forwards, cautiously, though not cautiously enough to avoid getting a pair of feet planted into his stomach. A heavy grunt was forced out of his mouth, and a wave of nausea rolled over him as he fell backwards to the floor. He blinked a few times fast, swallowing back his meager breakfast before he was right back to focus. They had to make it a show, after all. What was a show when one side won right away?

He rolled up his knees towards his chest, then kicked them out again, arching his back in the process. He placed his hands on the ground beside his head; his feet landed on the ground first, and he was right back up again, ready to defend and attack. The rest of the fight was short-lived. The man was already bleeding heavily from his nose, had bruises on his face, and it took Steve only a few well-aimed punches more before he had the man on his stomach on the floor, Steve’s knee jabbing in his neck to keep him down.

The end was called. It was over. He did it.

He won.

Steve came up from the ground, chest heaving, breath cutting, and unsure what to do now. He was always unsure after a fight. He looked down upon his enemy, the man who was now bloody and bruised, rolling to his stomach to push himself up, spitting blood to the ground. He had won. There was no saying if this had truly been Barnes’ champion, probably not, but he had won of the man whom had been send by Barnes. That counted for something.

With uncertainty in his eyes, he swept his gaze around the large room. Should he stay in the ring, or should leave and get his rest? He always got to rest after a fight, but this fight was different. Where to look, he did not know either. All he knew was that Rumlow was waiting, so he went there. The crowd cheered for him, like they always did. Their Captain of Death. Their pretty little weapon. They knew how good he was, so it was not _that_ big of a surprise he had won again. He always won. He hated winning.

As he approached the few men packed together, he saw that Rumlow seemed pleased, smug, even, about something. He was showing an excessive pride as though _he_ had defeated the opponent, not Steve. That was alright, though, he was used to it. Others would often claim his work and achievements as their own, that was nothing new. He stood there quietly, the side of his face still hurting after those punches, and his stomach was strained from getting kicked. Like the beginning of a tummy ache, quite annoying.

"I told you he was good," Rumlow said, glancing back to Barnes, who was silent and watching with a distant look in his eyes.

With his hands clasped together, kneading his fingers, swaying slightly on his feet after such exhausting performances, Steve was looking from one man to the other, waiting for his orders so that he knew what do to next. He had never been that good at doing things without being told so, it was easier when someone just pointed it out for him, that way there was less chance of him ruining everything either, less chance of doing it wrong. That way, he would not disappoint like he had always done.

"He is," Barnes said thoughtfully, speaking softly but he was well-audible. The man was leaning with his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow still propped up on the armrest of the seat, fingers moving along his mouth again, like they had before. Steve stared.

The icy blue eyes then snapped up at him, and Steve froze beneath their stare. He lowered his own, making sure he was still looking in Barnes’ direction but not in his eyes. He did not like looking people in the eyes. It was something oddly intimate and challenging that he wished to avoid. Much like a cat, it was something he just did not do. He could stare a thousand miles ahead and see nothing at all, but crossing eyes with someone made him feel uncomfortable, and often he would ignore people if they tried to catch his gaze.

The man named James Barnes was impossible to ignore. His voice held that certain weight of demand, something that yielded attention. "Quite a deadly weapon you have there."

It was not even aimed at Steve, but heat still ran through his veins. Not the heat of shame or a blush, but one of anger. He was not a weapon. He knew he was barely clinging onto the concept of ‘person’, but he did not stand before the mirror telling himself that he was a person every single day to have this man barge in here, put up his best against Steve, to then tell Rumlow he thought Steve was a deadly weapon. He did not take kindly to that at all, even when it was the most dangerous man of all of New York who said it.

"I’m not a weapon," he said aloud, before Rumlow had the chance to answer. Steve jutted up his chin in one of the last defiant stances he had, looking Barnes straight in the eye, "I am a person."

From the corner of his eye he could see Rumlow squint at him, possibly angry too, but Rumlow had already demeaned him to little more than an animal to fight, so Steve was not worried about any consequences, not now. Not when Barnes was here, proving what Steve had been suspecting everyone thought of him; that was a weapon to be used and then discarded when he had outlived his usefulness. He did not want to believe it. He _could_ not believe it. He had to be more than that. More than Rumlow had beaten him down to.

While Rumlow seemed angry, Barnes’ face betrayed nothing at all. There was no anger, no surprise or any kind of affected look that would indicate offense at being talked back to. Steve could imagine few people ever dared to talk back to Barnes’ face, but he had just defeated Barnes’ best, and he was shaking on his legs in exhaustion, and the fact that Barnes looked as though he cared about nothing at all was starting to get on his nerves.

He avoided the icy eyes, knowing they were trying to get a peek into Steve’s own.

He could not avoid the hand, though.

It was the calm raising of an arm, fingers relaxed and limb loose as Barnes beckoned. Steve knew it was meant for him, as the eyes stared at him still, but he did not move. He did not think he could. Barnes wanted him to come, but Steve was not sure. He clenched his hands around each other harder, flexing his fingers as to dig his nails into his own skin, almost hoping he would cut himself open so he could leave and get a band-aid. That did not happen, his skin stayed in one piece, and Barnes’ arm was still there.

"Come here," Barnes spoke, and Steve could feel the intensity in his tone. It was almost impatient, and Steve knew he should not make Barnes wait, but moving was so difficult and he thought he could sag through his knees at any time now, his legs quivering and his mind so full. He wished he could delete certain things from his head, clear his space so that he would not get an error message every time he attempted something new.

"He’s a fighter, he doesn’t do private time," Rumlow said, something of annoyance to be heard in his voice. Something vexed, but also something that seemed like worry, only not about Steve but about himself. Probably because Steve had some shit on him that he did not want to come out, but that applied to any person Steve stood next to, and Rumlow had not been freaking out with them. Something made this particular man different.

Instead of showing signs of disappointment, like Steve had seen others do when told he was not up for paid service, Barnes only smiled wider, seemingly _satisfied_ even. "Good to know."

Why that would be good to know, Steve was not sure. All he knew was that Barnes beckoned for him once more, look expectant and a little impatient, and part of Steve just wanted to give in. To give in to those piercing blue eyes, to that little beckon that was drawing Steve in though he tried to resist. Others were now looking at him as well with their prying eyes, Rumlow for instance, probably angry that Steve dared to go in against Barnes’ orders by not saying or doing anything at all. He did not mean to make them mad, not at all, he was just so confused.

It took Steve a moment before he had gathered the courage to take a step forward, and then another one. He was not yet in the vicinity of the arm, but it would not take long. A few more steps. A few more steps and then he was close enough. He stopped, looking unsure. He was not a dog, they could not just whistle and expect him to come trotting forward, but on the other hand he felt like a dog. Like Rumlow’s attack dog. He didn’t like dogs.

"I won’t bite." Barnes’ voice was soft and calm, nothing threatening to be found. "Don’t worry."

The corner of his lip curled up, somewhat amused though still level-headed and cool. Barnes patted his thigh, something inviting to it. Barnes wanted him to sit on his lap. Though he was getting death glares from Rumlow, Steve decided that it would not hurt to do what the head of the Sevastyanov family told him to do. Angering or annoying such a powerful man would be suicide, probably, or do him no favors at all, and his life was shitty enough as it was. He really had no need for an angry mob boss on top of all that.

It was not often that he sat in someone’s lap. Never, actually. Why would he? They had no use for him in there. When there was no other seat, they just made him sit on the floor. When there _was_ a seat he could sit there, or he would just keep standing. He was not quite sure why Barnes wanted him in his lap, it just did not make any sense to him. But then again, lots of things made no sense to him.

After yet another moment hesitating, Steve got over his initial unease, and came. When he got within arm's reach, Barnes grabbed his wrist with surprisingly gentle fingers, and tugged him closer, pulling Steve in his lap. It was a strange position, where Steve was sitting on his thigh, one hand reaching out to grab Barnes’ shoulder as to maintain his balance. He did not want to fall backwards and off the armchair, that would be… he did not have a word to describe what that would be like. Unpleasant did not quite do it justice.

A quick glance at Rumlow’s face told him that the man was somewhat content with what had happened, no longer pissed off at Steve for denying one of the most dangerous men of the state what he wanted, though there was something angry about it still. It was as though he could not quite decide how he felt, so he felt both angry and pleased, and it had his face twisted up in a nasty expression that was not even intimidating or scary, but just odd. Though he knew he should not, Steve felt tempted to try and anger Rumlow even more. Get back at him for the shit he had pulled through all these years.

"That’s better," Barnes said, on a soft, low tone, laying a light hand on Steve’s waist, fingers skimming down the fabric to find the hem, pushing it up just a little so he was touching bare skin. A shiver ran down Steve’s spine, like a bolt of electricity, only colder. Thin lips curved into a sly smirk, and icy eyes crinkled at the edges. "You looked like you were about to tip over, doll."

 _Doll_.

Steve’s heart fluttered, though he wasn’t sure why.

"He gets a dip after fights," Rumlow said, and Barnes’ expression changed ever so slightly in the _I didn’t ask you_ kind of way, but the other did not seem aware of that, as he continued with the careless shrug of his shoulder, "Adrenaline drop or something. It’s just something he has to work through."

"Well, I’m sure he’s taken good care of then, after a fight. Him being your champion and all."

Steve tensed, able to feel the tension and hear the intensity in his tone. It was as though they had all tensed a little. Barnes because he did not like Rumlow, and was probably looking for another excuse to back up how he felt, Rumlow because he knew he had been treating Steve like shit for years, but he did not want to piss off Barnes, and Steve, who was sitting in the lap of presumably the most dangerous man of New York, working through his adrenaline drop that had him want to collapse to the floor and just lie there for a while.

In that frozen second, Steve could see both their eyes flick from him, to each other. Their faces were unreadable. No fear, no invitational smirk. Barnes with his chin jutted up, expecting an answer, and Rumlow, arms crossed almost defensively, unable to give him one. Steve did not dare to move, afraid that even the slightest of shifts would direct the attention back to him, and they would fly at his throat. Even his breathing slowed considerably, nearly held, and after a few seconds he felt a dizzy spell work up to his head.

The hand on his waist then moved. It trailed up and down his side, light as a feather, thumb rubbing soothing circles just below his rib. It tickled a little, and Steve released his breath, trying to keep it as quiet as possible. He sagged slightly in the hold, allowing his exhausted body to lean further into the meager touch. Pale eyes flickered towards him shortly, then they went back at Rumlow, still challenging.

"Of course," Rumlow answered, _finally_. Steve thought it was confident of him to lie to Barnes’ face, especially since Steve had the power to tell him differently at any moment. He could go in against it, he could scoff, shake his head, tell Barnes otherwise. He could do so much, held so much power in his hands. He could apply a little blackmail. He was not like that, though. He did not do that.

The hand on his side felt nice, but the look Barnes gave him was an odd one. It was such a strange, intent expression, one of earnest and eager attention that had Steve’s heart beat just a tad faster. No one had looked at him like that before.

"They treat you well here?" Barnes asked, now to Steve. The fingers curled just a little into his stomach, trailing from there and it tickled even more. The gentle fingers send tiny sparks up Steve’s spine, and he never wanted it to stop. Rumlow looked like he wanted to answer the question, but Barnes held up his other hand, silencing him with merely a gesture. His eyes were on Steve still.

"It’s alright," Steve answered, a little unsure, "I’m fine."

"That wasn’t my question."

"That _is_ my answer."

Barnes’ eyebrows lowered, just slightly, and Steve dug the nails of his free hand into his pantleg, almost hoping he would be able to draw blood. Of course he did not, his nails were not _that_ sharp, and the fabric was in the way, but he still hoped. His other hand was on Barnes’ shoulder still, to hold on for support, because sitting perked on Barnes’ thigh while feeling so worn down from the fight and tensed from this whole situation brought him out of balance. He just could not relax.

Then, a second or so later, the look disappeared, and Barnes’ face was back to plain and somewhat bored. Steve released his breath.

"For god’s sake, if you want him for a good fuck, just say so," Rumlow said then, clearly fed up with what was happening, "I’ll see what I can work out."

Then, he gave Steve that little grin. That damned grin. It was not the same grin he had for anyone else. Not for Ward. Not for Rollins. It was the grin he reserved for Steve, after which he would study Steve’s face for any sign at all, but he never took the bait. Not the bait in his words and not the bait in his face. He refused to let Rumlow get into his head. The man was older than him, older than Barnes, even, this was wrong.

Hearing the words said so flat-out, instead of those small hints that Rumlow dropped left and right, letting Steve know the man wanted him to do extra, to be the favor people payed for, was like a bullet to his chest. Fear lurched in his throat, and he swallowed heavily. His hand curled into the jacket covering Barnes’ arm without fully noticing, shoulders hunching slightly, and he may have whimpered softly, but it was all over before he could properly react. Rumlow had dropped the expression, and it seemed to be done.

Barnes seemed to have noticed, though. He sat up a little, arm curling further around Steve’s waist as he came closer, though it was not noticed by Rumlow or the others, for Barnes’ face was that which called all the attention.

His facial expression was one of absolute _disgust_. Like he abhorred Rumlow. Like the ring owner was less than the mud on the soles of his over-shined shoes. Less than the dirt they walked on. It was not a good look, one that chilled Steve’s heart even more, and he wanted to leave. To get out of here right now. Things were starting to go wrong, and he was afraid they would draw weapons again. He was good at fist fights, really good, even, but he could not handle a weapon even if his life depended on it.

"No," Barnes spoke, his low voice laced with threat, "You won’t."

All Rumlow offered was a vague shrug of his shoulders, like he honestly could not care less about what someone else wanted.

"Alright. Whatever you want, _sir_." That last part was definitely condescendingly meant, and Rumlow had succeeded eerily well at that. Not eerie because Rumlow was bad at being condescending, but because he was being it to _Barnes_. "Fights are over, you done here?"

Glancing over at the ring, Steve indeed saw that the crowd was thinning. The roaring had died down, without him noticing, and there were no more fighters flying at each other’s throat. Though, with how these two men were behaving, Steve almost expected there to be one last fight. A fight he bet a lot of people would have liked to see. Leader of HYDRA against head of the Sevastyanov crime family. That never happened, thank the lord.

What _did_ happen, though, was not all that much better. Barnes patted Steve’s leg, the sign to stand up, and though Steve was not comfortable on Barnes’ lap, it had felt… not exactly _safe_ , Barnes was a very dangerous man, but somewhere it had felt _nice_. Especially the hand on his waist, stroking so idly, so softly. That was all gone now. His feet touched the cold floor, nearly like ice cubes to his bare skin. He stood, suppressing a shiver form ripping up through his frame. He did not shiver, he did not hug himself, he did not rub his arms. He stood there silently, watching the oh so strange man come up from the chair as well.

With sharp movements, Barnes put his long coat back on, eyes flickering every so often to where Steve was standing, but not another word was spoken. The woman with the red hair – Steve had nearly forgotten she was still here – came up as well, knife _still_ in her hand, flipping along her knuckles. She gave Rumlow a look of absolute disdain, a poisonous fire burning behind her green eyes. Barnes put his hat on his head, and gave Rumlow a nod like he didn’t mean it.

"I’m done here," Barnes said, answering Rumlow’s question. Then the corner of his lip curled up in a smile that meant no good. "For now."

The group walked over to the exit of the storage warehouse. Then, with the loud slam of the door closing, Barnes was gone. And Steve was still cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. I'll leave the talking to you. Comments are appreciated! It lets me know if people will be interested in this story or not, and they motivate me to continue. 
> 
> For clearance, Bucky Barnes is the good guy in this story, the sexual assault and abuse are NOT carried out by him.
> 
> I chose "Sevastyanov" because Sevastyan is the Russian variant of ‘Sebastian’, and Sebastian Stan plays Bucky Barnes (pls applaud my genius thinking). I have a strange fascination for Mafia Bucky Barnes. I've always loved the premise of a strong, fighter Steve who's been through shit and is cautious of everyone, but craves intimacy at the same time. I like to whump Steve, but it's so much better when Steve himself is strong, because it makes the breaking down so much sweeter. 
> 
> I'm not a fight expert; I merely watch fight scenes of various media sources and write things down from those. I am not a drug expert. I'm not a mafia expert. I try to do my research and keep away from sensitive things that I know little about. If you have tips or tricks, let me know, then I can improve!
> 
> Then last: I've tagged it already with Mature and all, but I'm telling you again that this fic has mature themes. As in sexual assault and perhaps nfsw themes. Not rape, I'm not going to touch that, but some characters (Rumlow) like to exploit the fact that Steve is dependent on them and may perform certain uncomfortable actions. I don't want anyone to read things they aren't comfortable with, so really, be careful💖


	2. No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain of Death.
> 
> That’s what they called him.

It was not something he liked to admit, or even _wanted_ to admit.

It was something he denied, even to himself. He denied it until he could not deny it anymore, but even then he denied it because there were no consequences to it whatsoever. It had no impact on the life around him. No one cared if he was lying to himself, why would they? Why would they care about what he did or did not tell himself? As long as he did his part, they were content. He was never content. Not really. He lied and denied.

While he was fighting, he felt the most stable he ever had.

Nothing about it was right. Not even a little. Did he tell himself that? Yes, he did. Did he accept it in his heart and used it to work around the problem, like he should? No, he did not. He thought about how messed up it was, he _noticed_ what it felt like when he did it, but he could just not bring himself to do something about it. After all, what _could_ he do?

There were little options, even littler resources, so he managed by denial. If he told himself that he did not need something, food or water or rest or mental health, if he told it himself enough times, he would stop needing it. Ignoring what he needed became a thing he was good at as well.

Every time he needed something, he told just himself that he did not, and then he ignored it.

The hunger, the thirst, the exhaustion that was like a block of cement to his feet, he approached it all the same: not. It did not help, of course, not really. The hunger was still there, the thirst parched his throat, the exhaustion swept him off his feet, but he kept walking, that was the point. He kept going, and that was what mattered, right?

No urges. No mindless rage outside the ring. No neediness. No loneliness or longing. No nothing. He was numb, and that was good.

He could work with numb.

What he could not work with, however, were the memories. They had their own will and want, their own life and their own thought processes. They popped up when they pleased, and tormented his head with the most atrocious images that he could put no meaning to. Blurry faces, distorted voices, high-pitched sounds. A swing, swaying back and forth. A wooden plank, up and down. Grass. Tree. Building. Ma. The boy with the thin scar on his forehead.

The boy.

His first.

He remembered his first.

It was not something he could ever hope to forget.

**X**

With his tiny feet trotting across the road, he tried to rush along his father’s great strides the best he could. The man took fast, hurried steps as soon as they got out of the car. Father was holding his hand tightly, making sure he could not fall behind. The ride had been a few hours long, out of the city, somewhere beyond the docks. There was water nearby, Steve saw, small waves lapping at the gently sloping stone shore. They were approaching a large building, like a storage warehouse.

They went around the building instead of going through the large door where Steve saw lights coming through, and voices and cries seeping in from behind the wall. As they reached the side of the warehouse, two big, gruff-looking men were guarding a door. As father approached, the two guards caught eye of them and stared them down. Steve tried to hide himself behind father.

"Boss ain’t here," one of the men said brusque, clearly unwilling to form much of a conversation. Steve was not oblivious to the gun that rested on the man’s hip, and he nervously shuffled his feet.

"I think he is," father countered, not at all afraid of the two muscled mountains standing before him, guarding the door, "Tell ‘em Joseph’s ringing the doorbell, I got something special for him."

Though father was clearly expecting the men to bow to his will and let them inside, the two stood still like massive rocks, seeming to get a little angrier. Their eyes were cold as ice, and as hard as stone. They had ruthless faces that betrayed no emotion, not a single feeling, they stared hard, and Steve wanted to sprint back to the car.

"Didn’t you hear me?" the same one as before spoke, "I said the boss ain’t here."

"I would tell him that I’m here anyway, if I were you," father said, holding Steve’s hand tightly, uncaring about the fact that his son was frightened, and wanted to go back home.

One of the guards jerked his head towards the door. The other guard sighed deeply, clearly annoyed, and went inside, opening the door just enough to push himself through. Barely a minute later he came back out, still annoyed- perhaps even more so than before, but he gave a nod towards father, and told him, "You can go inside."

There was not as much as a thank you from father, not a single word actually. Only a low muttering under his breath before he pulled Steve inside with him, through the door that was held open for them by the scary-looking guards. They entered a small room, looking like an office. There was one table, two chairs and a low drawer against the wall. Quite an _empty_ office, and Steve wondered who the boss was. If the man was not here, how could he answer? Had it been a lie?

A man with dark hair was sitting on one of the two wooden chair that rested only on its two hind legs. The man had his feet propped up on the table, a knife the size of Steve’s entire hand clenched between his fingers, brought up to his mouth as to pick between his teeth. On the table lay a few plates, some scraps of food left on them, and Steve thought of his own empty stomach.

Father cleared his throat, but Steve knew the dark-haired man was already quite aware of his presence, as those dark eyes had flickered their way more than once.

"What do you want?" the man asked, his face expressing that he was bored to tears, "I’m busy."

Father stiffened, eyebrows lowering, his stance like that of a bull ready to charge and destroy anything in its path. Steve knew, because he had seen that look before. He had seen it when father was angry at mother, or at other people. Father was angry quite a lot. 

"Those men of you, at the door, they stood stiff with coke," father said, "If I were you, I wouldn’t want _certain_ people to find out you put the bar that low."

The man at the table froze, the knife stilling in his mouth for a moment or two. After a deep breath, the man lowered the blade and pulled his feet off the table, putting the chair back to all four paws as he set them on the floor. He had fairly long legs, Steve noticed. The man’s attention was on the two newcomers, his face turned their way, and Steve thought he looked somewhat handsome. He still had some puppy fat on his cheeks and under his chin, but he had strong cheekbones and dark eyes.

"Our guards don’t use cocaine," the man said, leaning forward a little on his chair.

Beside Steve, father snorted. "I didn’t get that impression, though. Quite sad, when your men have to use your own product to stay vigilant."

The two adults stared at each other, neither afraid, through the dark-haired man looked a tad worried. He rose from his chair, crossing his arms before his chest, and Steve could see the muscles. He was in training, clearly. Ruthless, or so he seemed, not the man you would trifle with over nothing. Especially since Steve had not seen the men outside do anything. He supposed father was mad about being denied, and now he was getting back at them.

"Well?" Father asked, "What are you waiting for? I would go handle it if I were you."

"Right…" the other man answered, clearly skeptically, but then he shrugged and turned towards the other door. "Garrett!" he shouted, "Garrett, get over here!"

The door behind the man opened ajar, and the sounds of outside, a deafening roaring of people, forced its way inside. A man slipped into the room, closing the door behind him and the sounds were dampened. The man was not very tall, but he was muscled, build like a rock. His hair was shaved off to a buzz-cut, and it was clear he was in charge. He seemed cautious, always aware of what was going on around him. He did not say anything yet; he merely waited in silence.

"They’re here for… well, the ring fighting, I think," the dark-haired man said, having lost at least half of his arrogance in the new man’s presence, "Apparently there was some problem with the- uh, the guards. Of course… uh, I ensured him that we keep the guards on a tight leash, right? But…"

The new man, Garrett, did not even show he was listening. He merely walked around the table, eyes taking in the scene that played out in front of him as though he was in the theaters, and he stopped right in front of Steve. His eyes drilled right into Steve’s big blue ones, dark, searching for something. They were filled with shadows of passed times that Steve would probably never understand, with horrors that he could never imagine. It was as though time came to a halt.

He could not move. He could not breathe. He could not keep his eyes of the man in charge before him, neither did he want to. Some kind of realization bubbled up in his chest, but he refused to take it as truth. It could not be truth. That was not why he was here.

An icy cold flowed through his veins. He shivered. It ran through his entire body, from the tips of his toes to the crane of his skull, zipping up his spine like tiny needles made of ice. The man felt it. Saw it. Something flickered in his eyes, something interested. Something dark. It only lasted a second or so, the two of them trapped in the time span of a heartbeat, before the man backed off to the table, going to lean against it.

For a while no one said anything, not a word. No one moved, not an inch. It was as though they all had felt the same shock dragging through their body. As if every single one of them had held their breath and stared at the new man. They seemed afraid of him. Father, who was clenching Steve’s small hand a little tighter now, and the dark-haired man, whose eyes flickered left and right. Steve as well, of course, to the unknown man who showed darkness.

"I see you brought something," Garrett said then to father, breaking the silence, like shattering a mirror.

Before father could react, Garrett had crouched down in front of Steve, now standing a little lower than him. There was a smile on his face, aimed at the young child. It was not even a mean one, or one that made Steve want to hide. It seemed nice, though something undeniably dangerous shone through behind it.

"Hi there," Garrett said, also not at all unfriendly, though with a baby voice that did not quite fit Steve’s age, but he would take it anyway, "My name is John Garrett, but you can just call me John. What’s your name, little guy?"

"Steve, sir," Steve said back, "Steve Rogers."

The smile stiffened, and eyebrows rose. Garrett turned his head a little, tilting it up as to look father in the eyes. His expression had changed, still not unfriendly, but rather dumbstruck for a moment. That moment did not last long, as Garrett then said, "You’re gonna try and pawn your own son to me, Rogers?"

A nod.

"That’s low," the dark-haired man with the knife cut in, "Even for you,"

Garrett answered him without taking his eyes off father, "Shut your whore mouth, Ward, no one cares about your daddy issues."

Instead of looking hurt, like Steve would have done had the jab been meant for him, the dark-haired man _smiled_. It was a grin out of amusement, and the quick roll of his eyes as though it had been a funny, dopy joke, instead of a mean insult that mother had told him never to call anyone. It was one of the bad words. Words he had once picked a fight over with another boy, because he called a nice girl that for no reason other than she had rejected him.

The attention went back to him, eyes prying. Garrett seemed only half-interested in him, and that angered father. He could feel it, though he did not understand it. Not entirely. Garrett took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it slowly as he put his hands on his belt. "So, you think he’s cut out for the ring?"

"I don’t think," father answered, "I _know._ This one is very rare. Top quality."

"You said that last time as well, " Garrett cast back, eyes darkening, "She was a disappointment. Didn’t work along at all. I was starting to think you were losing your touch, ha, ha, ha!"

The laugh was mirthless, without even as much as a smile, and the eyes started at father with a kind of hyper-focus, unblinking, like a predator fixated on its prey. This was man who was sick in his head, and it unnerved Steve, made him want to run back home, back to mother. Father did not quite like it either, the words and the stare, but unlike Steve he was not scared, he was angry. "Watch your words, Garrett."

"Oh, come on," Garrett said back, somewhat of a grin crawling across his face, "I didn’t mean it like that, old friend, you know me. I like to stir the waters. It amuses me. "

"Don’t forget whom you’re talking to." Father’s grip tightened on Steve’s hand once more, and Steve wanted nothing more than to yank his arm back and run away right this instant, run back home, but father would not let him. "And I took care of that bitch. She got what was coming to her."

"As you’re supposed to." Then, Garrett’s attention shifted, going from father back to Steve. "Let’s have a look at what you brought me this time. Who knows, maybe you _do_ got something valuable here after all."

Finally, father let go of Steve’s hand. It was throbbing a little, cramped, his blood supply cut off for a long while. Father could squeeze so hard, it had Steve shake his hand back and forth for a moment to get the blood flowing again. Pins and needles pricked his fingers, making it tingle. Not even five seconds later, Steve felt a shove between his shoulder blades. Not hard enough to make him stumble forward and sprawl across the ground, but hard enough to force him to take a few steps as to keep his balance.

_"Don’t show your fear, Steve. Be strong, I know you are."_

With his mother’s voice in the back of his mind, Steve took a few steps towards Garrett, stopping then, and looking up at him with uncertainty. Again, Garrett did not look mean at all, and the great contrast was confusing. If anything, Garrett looked like a dad of some sort, the kind of dad who would do odd jobs and tell stupid jokes. Jokes that made you laugh even though they were stupid. There was no denying the strange aura around him, though, an aura that Steve knew to stay away from.

"He doesn’t look like much," Garrett said, taking in Steve from head to toe, "You sure you wanna pawn your only son? I don’t think he’ll get me much, anyway, so will it be worth it?"

Steve did not know what ‘pawn’ meant, other than it was another name for a chess piece, but something about it made a shiver crawl down his spine like icy pin pricks. It was not a good word, that was clear. It was a word about him, but not one that brought joy. Feeling the tension in the air, he clenched his hands to fists to keep them from shaking. Something bad was happening here, and he wanted to go back home to mother. There was no way mother would like what was happening here, she would get him out, she would not let this be.

"He may not look like it," father answered, gritting his teeth audibly, "But he packs a mean punch. He’s fast. He’s smart. And more than that, he refuses to stay down. Teach him what you know, and you’ll get a great fighter out of him."

Fighter? Steve tensed up even more. Was this about the boy on the schoolyard last week? The one he had beaten a black eye and a split lip? Was this his punishment? He had explained mother that it had not been his fault, and he had not started it. She had assured him he was not in any trouble, as the boy had been pulling girls’ pigtails and calling them ugly names. Was father still mad about that? About the fight? What was going on?

"We’ll see about that," Garrett said, still taking in Steve, "He looks like a beanstalk to me. I got enough of those."

"Did those other beanstalks of yours go through Project: Rebirth?"

A deafening silence fell, like a bomb had been dropped, and all that they heard was the sharp ring of the aftermath. Steve trembled, just slightly, uneasy under the stares that seemed to drill a hole in every part of his body. He did not know what it meant; what father meant. The words said nothing to him, and all he could do was just look back at the other three men as he fumbled with the fingers of his hands, nervously, a little bit frightened.

" _No way_ …" Ward whispered through the silence, eyes flickering from Steve to father, and back at Steve again. A distant rumbling of voices thrilled through the cracks in the walls and doors.

Garrett seemed positively shocked at father’s words, he just stared at Steve with his unusually widened eyes. His brain seemed to formulate no thoughts other than to register that he was shocked, and it would have been funny if Steve hadn't been so scared. With the shake of his head, Garrett closed his mouth, then looked at the floor before tilting his head back up to catch father’s eye.

"Your wife did Project: Rebirth?"

With a small smirk on his face, father nodded. "Yes, she did."

"And little Steve here… he was the result?"

"He punched a boy twice his size," father said, crossing his arms before his chest, shifting his weight onto one leg as he gave Garrett a rather smug look. "One hit and the other kid had a black eye and a split lip."

Whatever this project was that they spoke of, it seemed to change everything. Where Garrett had been uninterested and unconcerned before, he was no looking at Steve as though he was the most fascinating thing on Earth, and Steve did not like it. He remembered the mean boy, the one he had punched, which he later got reprimanded for. Was this his punishment? What did that boy have to do with this? And what was that project that they were talking about? What did mother do?

"No way in hell, you’re fucking lying," Garrett said with the shake of his head, looking back up, anger sounding through his voice, "I read the files. They all turned into failures and retards."

At the cutting words and raised voice, Steve winced instinctively, his heart picking up a pace in worries and nerves. He wondered why the man was using such bad words, and why he was so angry. Steve was young, but he was not stupid. He knew these men were bad news, and his father was not thinking in Steve’s best interest either, but there was little he could do about that right now. He could try to run, but where would he go? Hide? For how long?

There were few options here for such a small boy, but watching both grown men puffing out their chest to seem bigger was nothing but intimidating. Steve was intimidated alright, he was scared, and he wanted to go home, where it was safe. 

"Not him," father bit back, swinging out his arm to point at Steve, and Steve flinched, just slightly, "He was the only one who got through it without a scratch. I have proof."

 _Retards. Rebirth. Proof_. Steve did not want to think about any of it. He wanted to think of other things, _better_ things.

He chose one memory that brought him joy, and held on to that. He chose the one where the ground under the wheels of his bicycle had been dark and sandy one moment, and wet and soggy the next. An early time of day where his skin felt the warmth of the rising dawn, and water splashed and soaked him to the bone. He had crashed into the water, arms flailing and bike doubling over. He could hear his own laughter of days long ago echo in his ears. Not just _his_ laughter, someone else’s as well. His friend’s. They laughed together, and then the other boy helped Steve and his bike out of the water, getting them both back to the path, riding more carefully this time. He was covered in mud, but he had worn his old clothes and shoes that day. For this very purpose.

One of his favorite memories.

"You know what, Rogers?" Garrett asked, jarring Steve out of his memories of old, "Maybe I got a place for that kid of yours after all. I’d like to see him in action."

In his arrogant triumph, father smirked - a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head, something creepy sliding across his lips that had Steve want to bolt out the door. "Why wait?"

The reply was a huff. "Alright then. Whatever you say."

With the gesture of Garrett’s hand, the dark-haired man, Ward, came up from his chair again, and he walked towards the door. When it opened, the roaring sounds spilled inside, filling every corner, and Steve wanted to go back. Back home. To mom. He did not want to be here. Father grabbed his hand, pulling him along inside and Steve could do nothing but hobble along in a hurried pace to keep up with the adults. Ward closed the door behind them; Steve was looking back longingly.

Before him, there was much to see, and his eyes became twice the size. It was a gigantic warehouse, many times the size of their apartment, but it was nearly empty, safe for a few tables at the side, and some chairs. There were a lot of people crammed inside, all standing in some sort of circle around something that Steve could not quite see yet. He felt the urge to cover his eyes, but one of his hands was trapped, so he left it.

The people were screaming, shaking their fists and shouting at the same thing they were looking at. It was a circle; Steve could see the white paint. In the circle, two men were fighting. Judging from the enthusiasm of the crowd, and the smell of sweat and excitation, the pinnacle of the fight was nearing. Steve recognized it from some of the boxing matches he had once seen, the ones his dad would often look at, but what the men did was nothing like that.

The two men were stepping around barefooted; their legs and arms were bare as well. They were wearing shorts and a shirt. No weapons. No boxing gloves. They punched, wrestled, kicked at one another, jumping to launch themselves onto their opponent. One of them got tired, blood flowing from his nose like a river. He was stumbling, beating around himself wildly.

"Well, it seems Calvin is not winning the bowl tonight after all," Garrett said, some kind of perverted enjoyment showing on his features. Steve could only watch the fight wide-eyed, in horror and fear.

Calvin tried to fight his opponent, tried to punch, bash and beat the other down, but it had no use. His legs were kicked out from under him, the opponent throwing himself on top of him, wrapping hands around his throat. Calvin tried to fight, tried to throw the other off. The opponent lifted Calvin up from the ground a little by his throat, then slammed his head back to the ground, and Steve flinched. Calvin went limp.

The fight was over.

The winner stuck his hands into the air, hitting the sky with his fists, pounding his own chest and the crowd went wild. They pointed at the ring, screaming their lungs out, stomping their feet on the hard ground so it echoed through the hall. A small group of guys began to fight, throwing their own fists around, but a set of guards quickly came to pull them apart. They all had something feral in their eyes, and Steve wanted to leave more than ever.

Calvin was dragged out of the ring by his ankle, the rest of his body still limp and sliding along. Steve gripped father’s hand tightly, trying to hide behind his legs. Why was he here? What was all this? When could they leave? He was afraid to ask any of those questions, afraid to have the attention back on him.

"How old is he again?" Garrett asked, pointing back at Steve without looking.

"Twelve," father answered.

"Eh, good enough. Bring him."

Steve was pulled forward by father’s hand, brought towards Garrett who grabbed his other wrist, as soon as father had let go. Somewhere, he knew what would happen. He knew what his meant. He knew what father had meant by saying he could be a good fighter. And he knew he did not want this. Never. He could not do this. He was not a fighter. He was a kid! He was just a young kid who wanted to get back home and hug mother. He tried to struggle against Garrett’s grip, but that only caused Garrett to yank him closer with a rough hand.

"Be careful, boy," Garrett whispered, his face no longer containing any trace of friendliness, "I’m in charge here. I don’t care who you are or where you come from. Here, my word is law. And unless I say different, you’re nothing. Less than nothing. The dirt beneath my feet is worth more than you. Do you understand?"

Steve nodded, heart hammering away in his chest. He could not bring himself to speak.

"Good," Garrett said, and he reached out his hand to stroke Steve’s cheek, "It’s your turn."

**X**

The boy was just a little taller than him, but luckily, not heavily muscled.

He flew in immediately, right from the start. He moved so fast Steve could barely see his fists, until he felt them against his body. The first punch got him in the stomach, and the second in his face. And he just stood there, like he was already dead. He could barely move, merely trying to dodge whatever other punches got thrown at him, but panic and helplessness took hold, and he barely knew what to do. What they wanted him to do. What he _could_ do.

Then, he let the hot burn of rage rise from his stomach, pooling around in his belly until it shot up to his chest, and then further to his head. He saw red, embraced it, let it blur his vision, and then he understood. He understood what he was supposed to do. It was like with animals. With dog fights. An animal would do anything to stay alive, like a rat chewing off its own leg to get out of a trap. That’s the rage. He would have to learn how to control it, if he wanted to stay alive.

The boy was tough, refused to go down without a proper fight. He fought hard. He fought mean. He did not want to be the one who lost, probably because he got bets on him, or perhaps it was all one twisted up competition for something. Steve did not know. All he knew was that he had to fight back. The boy had that rage in him, but Steve’s was stronger. He watched the boy’s moves, and learned quick.

It took a beating before Steve knew what he had to know, and he switched to offense. His defense had not been good, but at least he had kept himself from getting thrown down and beaten the crap out of before he could fight back. He went for the boy’s throat, knowing that was a weak spot. He missed. He got lucky, and managed to kick the boy in the kneecaps. Then, he hit the boy once in the face before raising his leg and kicking the boy full in the stomach.

That was it. The boy fell to the floor and stayed down, only moving when he was grabbed by his collar and heaved up. Steve was panting, his face hurt, and his eyes were wide still. It was over. The end. The boy was hauled away, Steve did not know where. The boy was screaming. Steve did not want to be that boy. He never got the boy’s name. The boy had blue eyes, and sandy-blond hair, with a thin scar on his face, right above his eyebrow. That was all he could remember merely seconds later. It hurt him to see the boy get dragged away out of sight.

But one of them would have to lose.

And Steve wasn’t planning on being that one.

**X**

Later that night, when the first rays of sunlight rose from behind the horizon, taking their first peeks at the new world, father had left, and Steve sat on the floor of the empty storage warehouse all by himself. The crowd had cleared, everyone had gone home bit by bit, person by person. There had been good money made tonight, Garrett had said that while passing Steve an ice pack wrapped in a towel, something to soothe where he had been punched.

Pressing the ice pack to his face, Steve did his best not to cry. He would not cry. He was a big boy, and like his mother told him, _you always get up_. He was not down yet, so there was no reason to cry. Father would be back; he knew it for sure. Father would not leave him here, with these strangers who forced him to fight. His heart had yet to calm down, still a tad frantic after what had happened. It was nothing like he was used to, nothing like he had ever known. He had seen aggressive people before, had seen and felt rage himself, but this was a kind of animalistic behavior that was not to be found in most people, or that was buried deep inside.

His entire body hurt, thrumming with stress and fear. He sat curled up in the corner, silence drumming around him, and he waited. He had been sitting there for a while, waiting for something. He had no idea for what, he had no idea for how long already, or how much longer he would have to sit there. He was waiting for someone to walk past and see him sitting there, someone who would bring him home. Did mother even know he was here? He did not think she did. She would never have allowed this.

What frightened him the most – though lots of things frightened him here – was that the other boy, the boy with the thin scar on his forehead, had been looking at him with murder in his eyes. It had been the look of a boy who wanted to keep living, who would do anything to stay alive. Even when that meant hurting other people. He had attacked so quickly, fought as though his life depended on it and Steve was terrified that it _had_. What if, after they had dragged the boy off beyond his sights, they had killed him? He did not want to think about that.

Slowly, but surely, tears began to drip down his face. He tried to keep them in, he really did, but everything hurt, and he was somewhere in a cold storage room, with people he did not know, after he had fought a boy who now might be dead. He was in pain, he was scared. He wanted to go _home_. He did not want to stay here, he wanted mother.

He barely registered the footsteps approaching him, but even when he did hear them, he did not want to react. He wanted to be helped, for someone to help him get home. Get away from here.

It was that man in charge. John. John Garrett. The man who was in charge of the fights and all the men in here. The man who had taken him from his father – Steve refused to believe his father had given him up willingly, surely something else must be going on – and forced him to fight. To fight that boy. A hot fist planted itself in his stomach, having something to do with the man. Anger. Hate. Steve felt bad feelings towards John Garret. A moment later, the man had crouched down beside him.

"Hey kid," Garrett said, his voice strangely monotone, not angry or sad or friendly, just a load of nothingness, "I’m gonna give you two options. One, you’re gonna keep crying and I’ll leave you here. We’ll see if you make it through the rest of the night, let alone the next day. Maybe you’ll starve. Maybe the rats will eat you alive. Maybe some assholes who are still hanging around will kill you. Who’s to say?"

Steve took a shuddering breath, thinking about the rats he had heard scuttering around. What if he would meet the same faith as the boy? That poor little boy? He did not want to think of it.

"Or," Garrett continued, "Or you can stop that pathetic weeping, and you man up. You man up like you did in the ring. That was some nice tactics you had in there. You definitely have it in you, you just need to decide whether you want to let it rot, and get beaten to shit in your next fight, or if you want to use it, train it. If you want to win. So, what’s it gonna be?" The look in the man’s eyes was expectant, "Winning or losing kid, it’s that simple."

Even when Garrett had been speaking, Steve had already made up his mind. He swallowed, pushing down the new tears and chasing the scary images from his head. With a steady voice he said, "Winning."

A large grin broke through on Garrett’s face. "That’s more like it."

He held out his hand, and Steve took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. The throb became worse, but Steve ignored it. He had been beaten up before, on the schoolyard, in back alleys. He was a fighter. He always got up. He was strong. Though this situation was nothing even close to ideal, and he wanted to go home more than anything else, he was not going to roll over and die, that was for sure.

If he had to fight to survive, then fighting he would. That’s what his mother taught him. Don’t use violence unless it’s necessary, try to resolve your problems with words. No words would stop the mess that was going on around here, but if winning meant surviving another day, he would never lose. With that defiance, that kind of determination in his eyes, he looked up at Garrett, a half-glare in his eyes, something almost challenging.

That made Garret grin even wider. "Oh yeah, I’m going to have a lot of fun with you."

**X**

Captain of Death.

That’s what they called him.

He hated it, a _lot_. It rolled off the tongue, both intimidating and graceful in some kind of twisted way, and he wanted another name. He had no idea what kind of other name. One that was not Captain of Death, as he hated to be reminded of what he had done. He hated to be reminded that in all his fights, he had never once lost.

They did not die, they people he beat, at least, not directly. They were never killed when they left the ring, that was a something false his own imagination had made up. Apart from being bloody, bruised and often unconscious, they were alright. No death. No destruction. He was not a murderer. The thing was, however, that after they lost three times their contract was done for it.

Fighters got paid for their performances, and unless they had a special contract with the boss that allowed them to keep losing, mostly because they put up a really good show that had the crowd howling, like Doom Strike, they had clearly outlived their usefulness, and no one wanted to bet on them anymore. That was what it was all about. The bets and the profits fighters brought. If it was clear one fighter lost all the time, bets were made on the opponent, and Garrett would lose too much money.

When their contract was up, the fighters lost a big chunk of income. Often, the fighters owed people money, and Steve had heard more than once about how a fighter had been killed in some dark back alley, because they had failed to pay off their debts. Debts that had been paid before by fighting. Indirectly, that was Steve’s fault, whether he meant to or not. He had defeated them, taken away their contracts. He had killed them.

But, as always, it was fight or die.

And Steve was not going to die.

After a fight, when the crowd went wild and chanted his name, that horrible nickname, he would often lock out the sounds, and hide in his mind. Hide in a good place where everything was nice. He was not stuck here, he did not have to beat up people for a living, and his parents had not abandoned him.

He was sure, more than ever, that they had forgotten about him. Even ma, whom Steve had loved so much, had not let him hear of her in years. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of father when he disappeared into Garrett’s office, and in the beginning, he had tried to talk to him, to ask him when he could come home, how ma was, and if he could see her. Father barely answered. He asked once how the training went. They did a lot of that before the real fights started, but Steve did not want to talk about that.

Last time, around ten months ago now, Steve guessed, he had hit Steve when asked about ma. Shouted that he had enough of Steve bothering him every time he came here to collect his share.

Getting hit by his very own father was not something Steve thought he would ever get over. It had been such a big shock, not only getting smacked across the face, but told that father was only here to get his share of the money. The cash that Steve had earned, but that he never saw a single dime of. Somewhere he had been grateful, and even a tiny bit relieved that Garrett had stepped in, threatening father, telling him to not ever lay a hand on Steve again. He knew it was because he was valuable and Garrett just wanted him to be in top condition for the ring, but somewhere it felt nice. After that, Steve had seen his dad a few times, but he had never interacted.

He had been sixteen, at that time.

More months passed. He never saw any money, though he knew there was lots going around. He never got himself anything. The only thing he earned by fighting were points. With those points, he could pick out something for his room, like decorations or even plain necessities. The more money was earned that night, the more points he got. It took him a while to even earn himself a mattress. Before that, he had slept on a thin carpet, with nothing but a ratty old blanket to keep himself warm. It was strange that Garrett would step in when he was hit, but at the same time let him sleep on the cold floor.

He earned himself a pillow, a better blanket, a nature poster to give some color to the boring grey wall, and more. It was all shitty quality, so he had to replace it every so often, and he had to earn ridiculously much points for something as simple as a blanket, but at least he had a way to earn things. They gave him three full meals a day to keep him healthy, two when they thought he did bad in the ring. He did not lose. He never lost. But they thought he had not made a good enough show; the crowd had been bored, spend less money. So no dinner for Steve. The food was alright. Bland and always the same, but at least he got food.

He tried to escape once. He had just turned eighteen. After six years of working for those assholes, he was done being their slave. Being eighteen meant he could go out there, and live on his own. He hijacked a car in the dead of night, and drove out of there. It took them exactly an hour to catch him. He was not even halfway to the city. They locked him up in his room and refused to feed him for two days. He thought he was going to die. They gave him half a bottle of water. It was not nearly enough.

They could never break his spirit, though. He would keep on grinding, no matter what. It could not be that he was their precious Captain of Death, but that he could not even get out of this poorly guarded storage warehouse. That was too sad for words, especially after Garrett had been training him. Sometimes, he would get compliments; Steve could not even begin to describe how that felt. He would feel an epiphany, and work twice as hard after that just to hear another one. Garrett barely complimented him, but Steve thought he complimented him more than he did Ward. Ward was a tough young man. Steve barely saw him. Apparently, he was a cop now, or so the rumors said.

Second time he tried to escape he had done so more directly. He had punched the guard in the face and just ran. He ran off the road, so they would have more trouble finding him by car. They still caught him. They had dogs.

Steve hated dogs now, feeling a pang of fear every time one barked too loudly.

They locked him in his room again, two days, no food, even less water than before. This time, though, the lights were out as well, and Steve sat in an ice-cold room in complete darkness with a dry throat and rumbling stomach that hurt with every move he made. It was horror. Pure horror. He thought they would leave him in there forever. Thought he would never get out. The only thing that kept him company was the voice of his best friend, a brunet with foggy features and a distorted name that flickered through his brain but that he could never quite get a grip on.

_"I’m with you until the end of the line, pall."_

Though he was not broken yet, it had chipped away part of his defiance. He was still determined, still had the rage, but he felt less keen to go in against Garrett. The man who told him, "You’re not even punished for escaping, you’re punished because it was such a pathetic attempt."

Eighth time. Running did not work, so he tried something different. The water. The storage warehouse stood near the water, and feeling desperate Steve had tried to swim. It had been cold, a still cool early May, but he tried the best he could. He tried to swim along shore until he found something. A dock. A place to climb ashore. People. It did not matter. He had no idea how they found him again, but they did. He was torn between glad and destroyed. Glad because he had felt the cramps come up, and he had nearly slipped into a state of hypothermia. Destroyed because he could have drowned there and then, all this would be over.

After they had warmed him up and made sure there would be no lingering effects from that, they put him back in his room. Two days. No food. No water. No light. No bed. They had taken his mattress away. Not just for two days, but permanently. He had to earn it again. On top of that, they had taken away all his points. Steve wanted to cry. He did. In the dark, where no one could see him. He cried. But not for long.

Nineteen years old, and he was met with the real power behind his rage. That white-hot fury that he felt when his opponent charged had reared its ugly head when it was not supposed to. He had not meant to do it, but he just snapped.

It was the first time he slipped.

Truly, _slipped_.

It was the fear that brought up the rage. It was getting worse; he could feel it as soon as he opened his eyes. He could feel it in the way he got up this morning, in the way his stomach clenched, and his ears buzzed whenever someone even came close to him. It was fear, it was anger, it was rage. It were the urges deep inside that broke free from their bounds, that he usually only slackened when he fought. It was that hot, burning anger that sought harm, and he tried to cool it down as quickly as he could. It was too much.

His fingers clenched around the glass, tighter than he should, it was going to break. No, _he_ was. He brought it up, it bumped against his teeth, blunt, harsh. He tilted the glass back and drunk. Too fast. Too much. Too high expectations. The water shot into the wrong pipe and he choked, fingers slacking, the glass fell to the ground. It shattered into a million pieces, sending rocks with cutting edges in every direction. He coughed, retched, tears blurring his eyesight.

The sudden stress punched him in the stomach so damned hard he doubled over and gagged, his stomach too empty for anything to come up.

It sucked. He hated it. Just so fucking convenient. He had to fight tonight, a new enemy, one older than him, taller, bigger. Better. He had to focus. Had to pull his shit back together. It built up like water currents. He tried so hard, did his very best to win, did everything they asked of him, and it still was not enough. That was when the anger came, unleashed without a second thought.

His hands found something. A mug. He gripped it tightly. No water this time. A scream rising from the pit of his chest ripped itself lose from his throat, and he hurled the ugly plain mug to the wall. It shattered, but the pieces barely had time to come to a halt before the next glass was sent flying. It was worse than all the times before, it pushed him hard against his will, as though trying to swim in against the currents of the ocean.

Out of his mind with the flood of emotions, he grabbed whatever he could get his hands on, and he threw it, as hard as he could. Glass and ceramic and stone and more glass, it all splintered, it cracked and howled with its own noises of pain. It was not enough. The pain that raged through him like a firestorm, ripping at his insides, it was not enough to calm it down.

He kicked the cabinets, tore the small doors off the hinges with a strength that was not supposed to be his. He threw the plates and glasses and cutlery. He kicked the chairs, lifted them up and hurled them to the wall. He punched the glass, and hot, slick blood dribbled down his hands. He did not care. He fought and fought, until he could fight no more, and he sunk to a miserable ball in the corner of the room.

The fire burned hot, but it died fast.

Garrett was there. He was not angry. He was calm. Steve suspected the man had seen everything, or at least the last few parts of it.

" _Please_ ," Steve sobbed, tears streaming down his face like water bursting from a dam, " _Please_ let me go home. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. _Please_."

"I know, kid," Garrett said, standing in front of him. The man crouched down, coming to his level, "But you gotta fight."

"I _can’t_ ," Steve cried, taking jerking gasps that heaved his chest up and down, his eyes stinging and throat burning after his helpless screams, "I- I can’t do this anymore. _Please_ , I’d rather _die_ …"

Garrett scoffed lightly, shaking his head with the roll of his eyes, as though a kid had not just trashed his whole kitchen and was currently sobbing and shaking on the floor. "Get over it, kid. It’s not going to get any easier if you keep wailing like a pathetic baby."

Steve sucked in a hefty gulp of air, nearly choking on it. "I-I’ll lose…"

"No, you _won’t_." It was not quite a snap, Garrett’s voice still low and somewhat calm, but there was a heavy rock tied to his words, something annoyed lacing his voice that Steve had no trouble picking out, "You were going to win, remember? You said you’d win, so that’s exactly what you’ll do. You’ll win, you understand?"

Yes, Steve understood.

That didn’t mean he would still win, though.

His opponent was big. Big and strong and broad and angry, but not like Steve, though. No one was like Steve. The man had a rage, it sat behind his eyes, and Steve could see it it like sand through clear waters. He recognized the fire that was the rage, the urge to survive, to win, pure self-preservation that reared its head whenever challenges presented themselves. The man had a strong rage; Steve’s was stronger.

There was a wrinkle in Steve’s nose, his muscles taut and tensed, jaw clenched so hard no hands would be able to pry his mouth open. The man let out a cry before he charged; Steve said nothing. He had screamed his madness already; he had torn out that sound and now it was dead. There was just the wildfire that roared in his eyes, ready to ignite anything that he came in contact with.

But no.

The man’s movements were quick, calculated. He was smart, big, strong. Everything Steve already knew he was, and Steve did nothing. He just stood there, as though he was already dead. He felt the blows, the pain, heard the screams and chants in his eyes but he did nothing. He just danced to the sides, only for his feet to be twisted out from under him, and he fell in a heap to the floor. He came back up, fists raised. They were slapped away.

A punch to his nose. To his face. To his ribs. He went down.

He was going to lose.

A voice whispered in his ear, from days of old, almost forgotten as they were buried beneath layers and layers of dirt, _You always get up_.

It was like an invisible hand grabbed hold of his soul and turned it inside-out, for what he felt was not human. It was dark and twisted, but it was strong. Strong like had not felt the rage before. It burned like the fire of the sun, like lava through his veins that poured down his spine, red blurring his eyesight like the flames that curled in the pit of his stomach. His skin was smoking-hot red all over, smoldering embers beneath his outer layer, and all he felt was desire; desire to _win_.

A desire so hot it suffocated him until he could not think clearly anymore. It was rising up his stomach and throat, as though finding an outlet that it could not find elsewhere. His hands trembled with the hits they wanted to share, the punches, the beating, only he did not just start punching; he pounced.

Like a wolf onto his prey did he dive on top of his opponent. He was screaming, right in the man’s face. Words that he could not understand and did not know the meaning of, for his brain was like sluggish, thick fog that filled him to the brim. He clawed at the other man, he clawed and punched and screamed and tore into him like a starved animal digging for its first meal in weeks.

There was yelling all around him, cheering and screaming. There were feet stamping floors, chants called, words thrown at his head, but he did not listen. He kept hitting. He kicked and spat and screeched. He was determined to do something he would otherwise never have done, because the rage whispered in his ear and drove his hands. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose. He would not lose.

Then, hands grabbed him, fingers curling in his shirt, pulling him with them. _No no no NO!_ He fought back: screaming, lashing, kicking, thrashing, growling, biting; he was a wild, rabid animal caught in a net, desperate to escape. They would not get him. He was not going to surrender. He was going to destroy them like the flames did him. His hands clawed at the sky, merely slicing up air. His body was pulled up a bit, arms around his chest. Steve screamed harder and thrashed his legs.

The shouting of the crowd reverberated in his ears like strikes of thunder, echoing through the large warehouse where it bounced off the walls and rocketed back to him.

_"Look at him go!"_

Roars of voices rose to the air, joining in a chaotic symphony where none of the players had sheet music, or even any idea what kind of instrument they were holding, drumming and hitting away, using their throats to amplify the sounds.

_"Crazy motherfucker."_

Steve screamed, he screamed out his lungs in desperation, but it was lost.

_"Deadly bitch!"_

It was violence in the air, a fight that was not done with fists or guns, but with sounds, and whoever yelled the loudest won the competition.

_"Like an angel of death!"_

_"Captain! Captain of Death!"_

Had the sounds been visible, tangible, they would have reached out their claws to the fighting, struggling Steve, as he was dragged away from the ring, where his opponent lay bloody and half-dead on the floor, barely moving safe from the occasional twitch, those sounds would have set their claws into him and ripped him apart.

_"Cap-tain! Cap-tain! Cap-tain!"_

They chanted. At him. About him. What he did. Steve fought against the hold. He broke free, crying out in pain when his sore body hit the ground below, his back arching up violently with his screams of agony.

The strong arms were back, curling around his frame much firmer than before, almost harshly. He screamed until his throat was sore, and he screamed again. He never stopped fighting, writhing to escape the hold he was in, his head moving wildly to the sides with his struggles to break free. He was going to screech them with every ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs.

A sting in his neck.

And like that, it was over.

He sagged in the arms, his struggles weakening, and the screams died on his lips.

There was a needle, put away quickly. A kitchen half destroyed. A cold floor beneath his body, stones beneath his cheek. He was put down. Lain down. By the arms. It was Garrett. He was talking, but Steve could not hear. Did not understand. His body felt so weak, so small, so fragile, and he could not move. He could not move his arms or legs or head or anything. He was paralyzed. Just like that. Was it the shock? The fatigue?

The needle?

Garrett settled down next to him with a loud sigh. Steve could not move. He could not move. Not his arms. Not his head. Not his legs. He could not move.

Soft, labored breaths left his lips, eyelids closed halfway. He groaned, quietly, wishing he could feel his legs. Wishing he could leave. Could get up. Could _die._ There was movement in his line of vision, flickering spots of light and shapes twisting, breaking apart and knitting back together. He peered through a curtain of dark lashes, blinking once, twice. His soul floated in his body, pushing up to his chest and clogging in his throat, as though it could not decide whether to stay or force its way out.

Footsteps. His eyes fluttered, lightly, eyes rolling up a little as to look, but all he got was a headache. He groaned, weakly. The footsteps stopped. Ragged breathing.

"What the fuck happened out there?" a voice hissed. A man stepping partially into his vision, frowning, surprised, looking around the kitchen, "And what the fuck happened here?"

"Oh," Garrett said, as though just realizing that the kitchen had been thrashed, reaching out a hand to pet Steve’s honey-golden locks, and ignoring the tremble that went through the boy, "He had a bit of a tantrum, is all. It all became a bit much for him, I think. He freaked out, trashed the room. Said he wanted to die, and he was going to lose."

"What the fuck?" the other snapped, "He can’t do that, he–"

"Relax, man," Garrett interrupted, leaning back a little, "It was bound to happen someday. You really think he can live here for years and never once have a mental breakdown? Hell, _I’d_ get a mental breakdown if it had been me in his shoes."

A silence.

"What’s wrong with him?"

"Nothing. Just a sedative. Didn’t want him to beat the poor sucker to death, and he didn’t really listen to me after. I thought he was going to claw my damn eyes out." Garrett laughed, as though _anything_ about this situation was funny, instead of completely horrible. "He’ll be right as rain in a few hours."

Steve sucked in another breath. _A few hours_.

"I take it punishment will be served soon?"

"Punishment?" Garrett asked, sounding genuinely surprised, "For what? Letting out some feelings? Almost losing? Didn’t you hear the crowd? Captain of Death, now _that’s_ a nickname. He already got beat up in there, brought in a lot of cash, I’d say that’s enough. We’re good here."

"But–" the other tried.

"Know when to pick your punishments, boy. This ain’t one."

He could not move.

Twenty-one years old. A big celebration for most, but not for him. They gave him his first beer. It was almost nice. Garrett was almost nice. They had sat outside together; he had even gotten a piece of birthday cake with a single candle. They made sure they took the fork back when he was done with the cake. It tasted heavenly, and Steve had eaten it as slowly as he could, to savor every last bit of it. He did not have to fight that week, a little birthday present, like every year on his birthday. He was content with it.

In the dead of night, he would pace through the dark in his room. It was difficult to sleep for prolonged periods of time. He ate what they give him, slept where they put him, thought about escaping, and then discarded that thought because he had nowhere to go. He had no way to leave, and the thought of hunger and thirst nearly becoming fatal in the deep dark made him shiver and afraid, and he fought. He waited for a chance to escape, wherever it may show itself.

Twentieth time. Threatening the boss himself. By a lucky shot he had gotten his hands on a knife, and he had threatened Garrett with it.

It went wrong.

Steve did not fight for a week while he healed.

He did not know why it left no scars, but knives would never be the same.

Every time he closed his eyes the darkness would jump him from behind. It came out of its hiding place and snuck up on him every time he tried to get some sleep, wrapping its cold, dark arms around him. It crawled into his body, into his blood, into his bones, his soul. It squeezed every last bit of hope and defiance out of him. If Steve let it in, it would never leave again, and Steve would never leave this place either.

Then he would continue fighting in the ring until he lost and what then? They would not just let him go; he knew that for sure. He knew too much about their organization, and he knew what happened to people who knew too much. He would fight until he died, and his death would not be merciful. He was afraid the darkness would grow stronger than the rage, because when it did, he had nothing left. Nothing at all.

Twenty-four. Garrett was gone; Steve did not know where. Whoever won the fight would be in charge. Ward fought Rumlow. Rumlow won by a hair’s breadth. Probably a cheat, that man, fighting dirty in the way of dragging in things that were not allowed. External factors, or perhaps a weapon, Steve did not know what it was all about. Rumlow won, Ward was second in command. Rumlow seemed pleased with Steve, with every part of Steve, not just his accomplishments. There had been hands on his face, stroking his cheek, stroking his jaw. There had been hands on his chest, hands on his thigh. It stopped there.

Attempt thirty-nine. Disaster. He had given up the moment they got to him, not even trying to put up a fight, and endured the torture they put him through. Rumlow originally wanted to beat the shit out of him, but Ward had objected, said that was not Garrett’s usual way of punishment. They took away half of his stuff, all his points, his mattress and blanket. They put him in the dark room. Two days. No food. No water. He stopped trying.

Twenty-five. Steve had given up on escaping all together, more concerned about staying alive. He was still looking for a way out, as he would never stop digging his heels in the sand to slow down his demise, but he did not attempt to actually get out anymore. He was waiting for a fairy godmother to magic him out of this place, basically. Rumlow was even meaner than Garrett. Steve hated him. Hated everything. More than once, he had debated about whether or not to just lose his fights. Lose all of them. Give up. A voice told him not to.

Memories of his childhood had been forced to the back of his mind, so he barely remembered who had told him to never give up. Ma. It was his ma. With the gentle eyes that held no color, and the soft strands of hair that were the color of a black-and-white movie. A face that was only blurred, a body that was as generic as could be. He remembered another boy. A little older than him. Brown hair. Charming smile. The boy was gone.

A friend. The boy was a friend. Someone to talk to. He used to have that, a friend. He remembered one. The pieces of driftwood memories eddied and swirled in his head like they would in waves of water. His mind was like an ocean, he supposed, and the memories are shipwrecks. After years, it was hard to know when a piece of debris was going to surface, isolated and out of context, but they were there. The memories. They were there.

He never lost, but he hated the win. Hated the fight. Hated everything in this godforsaken place. He did not think he would hold on for much longer. He could not. He was slowly losing the fight with himself, with the darkness. It got closer every day. He lived hour by hour, breathing only to keep his mind going, eating only to keep away the pain of an empty stomach, drinking because they wanted him to.

Twenty-six. A day like every other, or so he thought. Truly a life changing moment, if he had ever experienced one apart from the day his father brought him here. A man named James Barnes entered the storage warehouse. Watched him fight. Knew who he was. The man had pulled Steve into his lap, stroked his hip.

Called him _doll_.

Asked about how he was treated.

He was putting a few pieces of Steve’s soul back together, and he did not even realize it. He had no idea that was he was doing was blowing new life into Steve’s empty shell of a body, making him _feel_ something again. With those piercing eyes like nothing else, those thick strands of brown hair, and that charming smile that send Steve’s heart all aflutter, he managed to push Steve up back to his feet, give him hope where he had lost all.

Steve never wanted him to leave.

Wanted him to come back, as many times as he could.

Steve wanted him; the way he had never wanted anything else in his life. Barnes was new. Barnes was _hope_. Hope of a better life. Hope of a way out of this place that he could never leave. Hope that one day, he may finally be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, I’m kinda afraid this chapter is very long, wordy and maybe boring :/ Like you all left such sweet comments on my first chapter, and I’ll cherish them forever, they make me so happy and really motivated me, and I want to give you good stuff but I’m afraid that it isn’t the same… Still, I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. There's More To Living (Than Being Alive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, SO much for all the amazing comments! I could never have hoped this many people would read the story and enjoy it enough to leave a comment, I’m literally brimming with happiness and gratitude!!! Really, thank you SO MUCH for that, it really made my day, and it motives me to continue.

The coastline was entirely barren. There was no sand to be found, no vegetation to be seen, and no sign of life. It was nothing more than a flat piece of ground sloping down to the water, like a boat ramp, only stretching out far at either side. When it was warm, he would sometimes edge down and go for a swim. It was easy enough. The expanse of unwelcoming grey stretched far in front and far behind, like an ocean of rock. A sigh left his lips, and his stomach rumbled. A hand lay down on his belly. He was hungry.

He was sitting on a bollard; a sturdy, short, vertical post with a round head. Perfect to sit on. With his elbows he leaned onto his upper legs, staring out over the ever moving sea. Waves rolled across the stones, water lapping at the shore. The only sound other than the laps and purling of the sea, was the cry of the few gulls high above. How he wished to be like them. With wings so mighty, soaring the skies above, able to go anywhere they wanted.

It was nice and quiet, with the occasional breeze to blow passed. Steve hunched a little in his sweater jacket, happy he could finally feel a little warmer. His feet were kept warm by socks and his worn-down sneakers, and he finally felt a little better by body, but only worse in his head. It was not always easy to fight, especially when the adrenaline reared its head higher than he wanted, and then crashed down harder than his opponents.

When he was sitting in Barnes’ lap, the adrenaline drop had still been there, only mixed with a kind of fear and worry that kept him vigilant at the same time. He had been tired, but could not keep his guard down. Had to watch everything that came out of his mouth. Everything he did. It was exhausting. Odd. Though Barnes’ thighs had been comfortable, in his heart he had felt anything _but_. It was just so different. So gentle instead of harsh, so calm instead of angry, so nice instead of mean. 

That night, sleep refused to come. The sudden boom of thunder had come unexpected. He had felt the thickness in the air before, and smelled the damp rain smell in the air, but he had not expected it to be that loud. It rolled across the ground, shaking the floor like a tremble in a small child. The boom was merely announcing the jagged bolt of lightning that flashed down a second later, but Steve could not see, for he had his eyes squeezed closed.

Outside, the few trees had been barely holding on, swaying and groaning in the strong gusts of wind as the breeze ripped off leaves and small branches, pushing forth birds that swooped low and hid in hollow trunks, nests and dens.

The first drops of rain had been like bullets on the steel roof of the storage warehouse. It started slowly, almost unnoticeable, but then it truly started and it was as though someone above had turned on the tap. It poured down from the darkened skies, the dark thunderclouds emptying their contents all at once, though it never seemed to stop. Close to the warehouse had been a white-hot bolt of lightning that split the heavens above, tearing everything apart to show its fire and power. The thunder was only a second behind it, startling Steve from his curled up spot on the thin mattress, small enough for his new blanket – which was actually his old blanket that they had confiscated earlier – to cover him entirely.

There had been banging, the large droplets of rain smashing down and the opened shutters slamming back and forth, little playthings of the storm, and Steve flinched at nearly every single one. It would stop soon, he knew. It would stop and he would be fine. He was not afraid of a little lightning, some thunder. He just wished it was not so loud. So sudden. So deafening.

He had been lying there for what felt like hours, unable to fall asleep, thinking about everything that had happened.

When the rain had ceased finally at the crack of dawn, and the thunder had stilled, he had left the room, wandering outside to sit on the bollard and stare at the sea. They had not locked his room; he was grateful for that. Often they _would_ lock his room, to keep him from sneaking out in the middle of the night to try and escape. He never did. Not after attempt thirty-nine. He wanted to, but the opportunity was never good enough for him to take it, and wasn’t that typical?

He should be trying harder, he knew that. He was not even doing his best, not even trying to get out of here. If had been serious, he would have decked the assholes inside that warehouse, he would have taken their weapons and used it on them. He would have made an actual attempt instead of his sad little runs. It was just so pathetic. _He_ was so pathetic.

If he didn’t get his act together soon he would be going nuts in no time. He would be clawing and growling and screaming in panic and terror, just like he had done before. Shaking his head, he tried to get the thoughts to leave. He knew he was getting close to a crash. Not one of fight and adrenaline, but one of mind and thoughts. If he didn’t pull himself together, he would start to spiral and spiral and scream, and he wouldn’t stop until he was miserable and in tears and probably in the midst of a nasty breakdown and everything would just be worse.

This dip had been coming, but he was sure Barnes had pushed him that extra bit. He was already going about like a zombie, staring and staring with wide open eyes and a slacked jaw, sitting there in a dull silence as though they had stuffed him with pills and shots like the crowd that screamed for him, but Barnes had made it worse. Barnes had introduced him to a world that was _not_ all that, but simultaneously told him that he could never get it, and that sucked. That sucked more than anything.

He would stay away from Barnes, he decided, a pang of longing going through him. He would stay away from Barnes and from that red-head woman, and all the people Barnes surrounded himself with. He would never sit on that man’s lap ever again. He would not touch him, not even _look_ at him. The slight sting and itch of pounds of ants crawled across his body, like spiders dropped in his shirt and he shivered.

It started in his gut, low and uncomfortable, some sort of bizarre heaviness that sunk like an anvil and burned like it had been set on sure. He felt it when he moved, pushing and pulling, and it made him nauseous. It was getting worse. Even the fabric of his shirt against his skin was unpleasant; too restricting, too heavy, to sticky. He wanted it off. But he was cold. He would get cold. The air would cut at his bare arms and he would be shivering even harder in no time.

"Who said you could leave your room?"

 _Not now_. With a quiet sigh, Steve rolled his eyes up to the heavens. One day of rest. One day without Rumlow commenting on his every turn and twist. Was something like that not possible? Was that too much to ask? And now he was crashing, what would he do? Invisible bugs skittered across his skin, stabbing him with their stingers, injecting him with their poison. He was quivering to his very core, storm clouds packing in his head.

"Relax," Steve answered, trying to follow his own advice, "I’m not going anywhere."

"You better not."

A snort left Steve’s nose, and he straightened himself on the bollard. With the slight turn of his head, he looked at Rumlow, one eyebrow quirked, but jerked his gaze a little to the side when Rumlow stared back. Rumlow always kept trying to make eye contact, it was his thing, and it was pushing Steve off his nerves. He wanted to look down or away, wanted to be anywhere else but here and wrap himself in a blanket, protect himself. He did none of that.

Instead, he took a deep breath, forcing him to look in Rumlow’s general direction, keeping his voice light and low. "Where would I go? Hm? You’ve taken _everything_ away from me. Don’t have any shit left."

"Watch your tone," Rumlow growled, ticked off already, "Or I may just sell you to the first paying customer to be some drunk’s pathetic slut."

Steve stiffened, but he tried not to show that the words hit him that hard, for he did not want to give Rumlow a platform to build from. Even after the many threats, it was still a topic that kept his heart beating frantically, and his stomach sinking. It was one of the only things left that actually got to him, one of the only words that managed to make his heart beat a little faster in fear. He was unsure if Rumlow would ever follow up on it, but knowing that there were people out there willing to pay a handsome price to get their grubby hands on his body made him shiver.

It was the only thing he had left. His innocence was the very last thing that was still his, the only thing they had not taken away from him. It had not yet been ripped from his grasp like his belongings and his will and choice had been. And though he supposed it did not mean all that much, as innocence was a relative term, it was all he had, and he never wanted to lose it. Not to _them_ anyway. It could not be them. Not some foul man smelling of beer and cigarettes who would violate him in all the worst ways.

_To be some drunk’s pathetic slut._

Pathetic.

Rumlow was still staring at him, standing in his space. The man was looming over him and it was upsetting, to say the least. Steve wanted to stand up, walk around him, get back to the warehouse, but Rumlow was there. He was right there. And Steve was afraid that, if he dared to move, Rumlow would grab him. He was like the mouse and Rumlow was the cat; safe for as long as he did not move.

He wondered where his friend had gone, his rage. He wondered where the white-hot sensation of anger and a need to survive had left to. He needed it. Now. Steve took a small breath, his voice thin. "Garrett wouldn’t do that."

"Well I’m not Garrett, am I? The sooner you get used to this, the sooner you can accept that this is your home."

 _Your home_. Never. More than he did before, he wanted to be alone. Left to his thoughts no matter how cutting and dark. At least there was not yet another voice telling him how worthless he was, and how empty his future was. He wanted to go back to his room, close the door and hide there for the rest of the day. To sit in silence. To get his mask back on. To pick up all the broken pieces and force them together to form a picture that would hopefully hold for just another day.

It was not the same. The silence and the sass, the snaps and the growls. None of it was the same when Steve felt himself slipping, and Rumlow was the last person he wanted to notice that. Whenever he slipped he would hide in his room, or out on the road, somewhere they could not hear or see him. Not too far away, or they would get suspicious, but far away enough that he could let out all his frustration in peace. 

While Garrett had some sense of when it was bad and when it was not, Rumlow reached for the sedative every time Steve threatened to slip. Every. Time.

Even when Steve was not slipping at all.

Anger bubbled up in his chest, so hot that it pushed away the fear and shame, sending his gut on a spin in disgust and pain. _Home_ . That was a lie. A foul, disgusting, stupid lie that he refused to believe. "I live here. That doesn’t make it my home." Steve jutted up his chin, glaring back at Rumlow, fire and ice in his eyes, "This place will _never_ be my home."

"Don’t be such an ungrateful bitch," Rumlow snapped back, moving closer into Steve’s space. Steve kept his head up, forcing himself to stare into those dark eyes, very intentionally not looking away. He did not move a muscle. The urge to look away, just avert his eyes to something else, was growing. Anxiety with the strain of not giving in seized him from behind. Rumlow curled up his upper lip, spatting, "On your own in this kind of city, you’d be lying face down in a ditch fucked seven ways to hell if we hadn’t taken you in."

Like that, Steve gave up. He looked away. It felt disappointing, useless, frustrating.

 _What kind of city?_ Steve wondered, for he had never seen it himself. The city was a secret that was not supposed to discover. Or he was a secret and the city was not supposed to discover him. It was either of the two. Perhaps both. They did not want him in the city out of fear of him snitching on them, telling the cops everything they needed to make a case. It was a reasonable fear, since Steve felt a desire to do that out of spite alone. 

Clenching his jaw, Steve spoke again, " _You_ didn’t do _anything_ . That was all Garrett. You just took over an already working business and now act as though you made it this way. Newsflash, you didn’t! You didn’t do _shit!_ All you do is scream at people and act like–"

Fingers wrapped around his throat, a large hand closing off his airway. There was a moment of surprise, shock and realization slipping in, and soon he was out of breath and in need of fresh air. Steve gasped, his own hands coming up to pry the fingers away, clawing with his nails. He struggled, nearly falling off the bollard but the hand kept him up. He tried to escape, get a word out, but the hand around his throat just kept tightening and tightening, and he barely managed to draw in a few more choked gasps before colorful spots danced in his vision, a black edge surrounding all he saw.

Desperate for air, he kicked his legs, trying to attack Rumlow, until the man slackened his fingers just slightly, and Steve could take small, wheezing breaths, but it was not enough to make the spots go away, or make him feel better. It was not enough to keep his vision from spinning. Sweat pooled at the small of his back, of fear and frustration and anger and various other emotions that did not have a name.

"Garrett is gone, you fucking mutt," Rumlow snapped, "It’s just me now, and you better listen to me and can that attitude, understand?"

The silent terror of choking creeped up on Steve from behind – the lurching, upwards heave in his stomach as he tried to cough, wheeze, or make any noise at all, but he could not. He was clutching at his constricted throat with one hand and reaching out to push Rumlow away with his other. He could try to fight, this was not the end, he was stronger, more capable. He could try to use his strength and skill to overthrow Rumlow.

Still. Gathering all the effort he could, he managed to choke out, "Yes, sir."

He was released, his throat aching and everything stung. He gasped for breath, but was not allowed a moment of peace to catch his breath before a hand twisted into his hair and he was pulled back up again.

It was not quite anger anymore that had a hold of him now, it was fear, but not just that. It was the kind of fear that came from loneliness, and the terrifying thought of not having a future, or a future that would be as empty as the life he lived now. He was not afraid of dying, not per se, he was afraid of his life getting even worse than it already was. That the few last things he had left would be ripped away from him.

Rumlow grabbed him by the face, wrenching his head forward so Steve looked him dead in the eye. It was so hard to lock gazes, but he was given no other choice. Rumlow’s voice was low, predatory, and his grip tightened with each passing second, sharp fingernails bruising Steve’s cheeks. Panic exploded inside him. Steve’s breathing quickened, his somewhat pained noises muffled by Rumlow’s palm. It was disgusting, it was sending his head over the edge, and he was sure he would throw up any time soon.

"We own you. You better keep that in mind."

As though the choking and grabbing had not been worse enough, Rumlow leaned in, bringing their heads together, and even before the tongue dragged across the side of Steve’s face, thick and wet along his ear, Steve squeezed his eyes shut. It was as disgusting as he expected. Hot breaths on his skin, saliva sticking to him, the hand still pinching his jaw. _A power play_ , he told himself, _nothing more_. This was just another stupid power play of Rumlow to show Steve that he had no power here, and was left to the mercy of others. To show him they could do anything they wanted with him.

Then, Rumlow stepped back, hand dropping back to his side. He looked at Steve for a moment, eyes hard and cold. Then his arms came back up to cross before his chest. Steve’s stomach turned. He felt his blood rush to his face. He wanted to rub his ear, throw up, run away, but he couldn’t. He didn’t. He just stared straight ahead, at the horizon before him, still panting, still feeling difficulties to breathe.

"Don’t forget," Rumlow said, taking a few steps towards the warehouse, "You’re nothing without us."

With that, Rumlow turned around and walked away. Steve slid off the pole, barely able to keep himself up even with support. He was rubbing at his throat, at his ear, at his body, trying to get the poison off. The stench, the general feeling of being filthy. He was filthy. He was stained. Rumlow had just dirtied him. Wronged him. He could still feel the fingers around his throat. It still hurt. Was this his life?

Then, he went after Rumlow, his steps quick as to catch up. Rumlow turned halfway while he walked, looking back at Steve following him like a beaten dog begging for more, eyebrow raised, scoff on his lips.

 _Pathetic_.

They went to the kitchen in the warehouse, a room to the side with walls and a door, so no wayward crowd member could stumble in and raid the fridge. Not that they could open the fridge; it had a lock. That lock was to keep Steve from taking out food and eating it whenever he wanted. That lock had not been there when Garrett was in charge. Not that there had been much to snack or eat, but he could at least take a piece of fruit or something to munch on when his stomach rumbled. Now, he had nothing. Truly nothing.

The kitchen was simple, and had the bare necessities. A table with chairs; a cook-top; a microwave; a small fridge; a sink; and some cupboards. Rumlow went through the fridge after taking off the lock, rummaging around before pulling something out that made Steve’s stomach feel just a little emptier. A breakfast burrito. It looked delicious, and Steve knew it would only get more delicious when it had been heated up. He hoped he would get one as well. He had not eaten since yesterday.

As though he could read Steve’s mind, Rumlow then said, "That little stunt of yours outside just cost you breakfast." Without a word more, Rumlow shoved the burrito into the microwave, punching in the right time with the buttons and turning the thing on.

"What?" Steve asked, breath stuck in his throat, eyes widened, "Why?"

"Because you know I fucking hate it when you put up an attitude." Rumlow went through the cupboard to get a glass. "You annoy me, I annoy you. No breakfast."

Steve stepped forward, forcing himself into Rumlow’s space even though all his instincts told him not to. Self-preservation went two ways. Stay out of Rumlow’s sight, so there was no beating or screaming. Get into Rumlow’s face, or there would be no food. "You can’t do that to me."

Those harsh, empty pools of rotten eyeballs looked straight into Steve’s. They were calm now, not enraged at all, and somehow, that worried Steve a little more. "On the contrary," Rumlow said, "I can do anything I want."

"I need food." Steve’s stomach nearly rumbled loudly, small waves of pain dragging through it, as though it was about to digest itself. "I haven’t had any since yesterday."

"I don’t care, that’s your problem."

"You’re supposed to feed me!" Steve snapped, feeling cranky already now that his blood sugar was so low, and his stomach empty, and his muscles weakened. "That makes it _your_ problem!"

The microwave beeped, and Rumlow opened it, completely glossing over Steve’s last statement, as though he truly did not care. Steve did not think he did. He took out the burrito on the plate, and then put it down on the table, leaving the door of the microwave opened. He did not bother to close it, but rather took his glass with water from the kitchen counter, and he sat down at the table. Steve could smell it, see it, hear it, he wanted it.

That was that, and there were no other words. No nothing. Rumlow merely took a sip of his water, preparing himself for his breakfast that he knew Steve could not have, and he was going to taunt Steve all he could because he enjoyed that so much. It was truly awful. Cruel. But not unusual. Steve was about to grab a chair himself, trying to argue with Rumlow some more, when the man snapped his fingers, pointing down at the floor.

"You _cannot_ be serious," Steve said, his hands clenching to fists.

"Totally. On the floor, _now_."

Steve averted his eyes, crossing his hands before his chest and clenching his jaw so hard he might break his teeth, before he gave in and sat on the floor, next to the table. _A power play, nothing more than that._ It was the usual shtick and there was almost nothing Steve hated more. He was the dog again, sitting by its owner’s side. The attack dog. Their Captain of Death. Nothing more than an animal. Rumlow was on the seat, calmly eating his breakfast as Steve could do nothing but stare, thinking about how his last meal had been yesterday’s lunch, and he was starving.

His stomach felt like an empty hole in his belly, and he was near desperate to have something to fill it. To prevent it from making any awkward noises, he curled up into himself, hoping to still the sounds and clench his stomach to be smaller, so it would hurt less and he would not feel the hunger as much. Soon, it would stop making any sound at all, he knew from experience. Soon, the hunger would lessen, though he would feel weaker.

"Don’t look at me like that," Rumlow said, taking a bite off his breakfast burrito, "This is your own goddamn fault and you know it."

No, Steve did not think this was his own fault. They had not given him food yesterday evening, and now Rumlow refused to give him breakfast. He knew he had an attitude, and that he should just stuff it sometimes, but even though he lived here, and was entirely dependent on them, he was not their dog. He was not their slave. He was a person. A real person with wills and wants and hopes and dreams. Most of those had been crushed a long time ago, but he was still _someone_. Not an animal.

He was pathetic and weak and he should try harder to win back his life, but he was hungry and sad and scared, and addicted to the adrenaline.

Rumlow was being extra petty, apparently, not even allowing Steve to take place on a chair. The big man wanted to show off dominance, and made him sit on the floor, like he would do more often, and Steve waited until he would either get food, or was allowed to leave. He knew Rumlow was making a statement by over-enjoying his burrito, mostly trying to lure Steve out of his shell and do something stupid, so he tried not to stare at it too much.

"You could have gotten breakfast if you hadn’t been so damn stubborn," Rumlow continued, thumbing away some crumbs from the corner of his mouth, "It’s not too late yet."

 _Apologize_. Rumlow wanted him to apologize. And not just once either, Steve knew. That man was quite fond of the ‘now like you mean it’ approach, and Steve would end up apologizing quite a few times, completely degrading himself and plummeting into a deep hole of embarrassment and shame. His face flushed red at the thought alone, heat curling in his stomach and pushing up his throat. 

It was exactly what Rumlow wanted, that Steve degraded himself even more than they could. They wanted him to give up his pride, his stubbornness. Maybe he would.

Food was necessary to survive. Though it stung, he could do without dignity.

"I’m… _sorry_." He wanted the Earth to open up and swallow him whole, he wanted to die right there on the spot, but there was no rescue. It was absolute. Torture. Utter humiliation, and he had to sit in it and do it again. "I’m sorry."

He tried to apologize, and again, and again, for at least three times until Rumlow seemed satisfied. Nothing happened, though. Steve was still on the floor and Rumlow still on the chair, still eating his own breakfast. He was not allowed up until told so, not allowed to get food unless told so, so he still sat there. Waiting.

"You’re not getting any breakfast," Rumlow said then, licking the last remnants of sauce off his thumb, "But you did earn yourself some lunch. Don’t muck it up. And oh-" he added, as though just remembering it, "Clean up the ring area, will you? You know where the stuff is."

The ‘stuff’ was a set of cleaning equipment. A bucket, soap and a brush. Yeah, Steve knew where that was. After so many years in here he knew where those goddamn objects lay, _he_ was the one who always had to go and fetch them after all, if not for himself to clean up their shit, then for others. They always made him clean up after his own fight, and it was disgusting and annoying. It was double work, because not only did he fight to reel in more cash for them, he also had to clean up after it. Garrett never made him do that.

With a bit of an angry frown on his face, Steve waited until Rumlow had finished his burrito before giving Steve the sign to leave. _Finally_.

Cleaning the ring area may have been one of the suckiest things ever. It was covered in sweat and blood and grime and slime, and more blood. Steve had fetched himself the bucket, and was now sitting there on his knees, scrubbing the floor with a brush, nearly seething with rage at Rumlow, but he stayed quiet because his painful stomach was a constant reminder that he needed food. He needed that lunch, so he had to stay quiet.

The water in the bucket was already blurry and grey. It was cold as well, but there was nothing he could do about that. Cheap soap stuck to his hands, a kind of odd smell entering his nose from the beginning, and he was only just getting used to it. He moved his hand around with the brush clenched between his fingers, dragging it across the gross stains with a focused look on his face. He was only spending more energy now, and he would be even more hungry later. At least he would get lunch, that thought kept him up and going. The promise of a meal.

If only he could shove that brush down Rumlow’s throat, and elbow him in the face hard enough to break his nose, that would be something. Shove it down Rumlow’s throat and then make a run for it. Garrett was not here, neither was Ward. It was just Rumlow hanging around now, as Rollins had left for who knew what, and it was calm at the warehouse. Easygoing. Steve was scrubbing the floor, Rumlow was in his office, Rollins out, and the old man who oversaw the fights was napping somewhere, probably.

Before he could stop it, the first bits and scraps of an escape plan drifted up in his head, a way out of this mess. A way out of here. He shook his head, trying to chase them away, but like weeds and insects, they kept coming back for more, fighting their way to the surface to annoy him, a stain in his vision, a thorn in his foot.

Escaping was futile, he remembered clearly what happened the last few times. He was not going through that again. If they caught him he would be as good as dead. No. He was better off waiting. Waiting for what? The perfect opportunity.

 _Barnes_.

The name popped up in his head, just like that, and Steve growled lowly, slamming the floor with his hand. No. No, no, _no_ . Barnes was not going to help him. Barnes was not that opportunity. Barnes was just a very powerful man who had showed interest in Steve _once_ , had him sit on his lap, and that was it. Barnes left. They all did. Everyone he had ever known left, leaving Steve all to himself time and time again. Barnes left, and he was not coming back, Steve was sure. And even if he did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for Steve.

The first time he saw James, his heart had fluttered, and right after he supposed he really did win the prize for most rotten judgement any person could have. He thought he had learned his lesson, that after watching his life crumble down before him, the pieces thrown back at his feet, he would not dive head-first into the same mistake. Now, it seemed like he did it anyway, and he was already hurting.

A vague hollowness settled in his chest, a starving loneliness that ate away at his heart and soul, and everything that was still left. Worse than the hunger. Worst than physical pain. This he could not escape. This he could not heal. His shoulders hurt. His neck did too. He wanted a massage. From Barnes. He wanted Barnes’ strong hands on his shoulders and knead the tense meat of his neck. He wanted Barnes to–

Barnes was not here, and Steve had to get a hold of himself. He rolled his shoulders, turning his neck this way and that, and flexing the muscles to stretch it a little.

A loud roar of an engine spooked him up out of his thoughts. A car. It came to a halt before the warehouse, doors slammed, and voices carried through the opened doors in the front. Steve stilled a little, brush coming to a halt on the dirty floor. The door was pushed open further, and two men stepped inside. They were in deep conversation and did not even notice Steve sitting there on the floor, cleaning. They noticed nothing, too occupied with their own things. He heard only wisps of their conversation, brief words that ebbed towards his shore just far enough for him to grasp.

_"Fifteen minutes … grab what you need … leave soon."_

Fifteen minutes.

A car.

An opportunity.

Like a spider swinging left and right from branch to leaf to spin a web so fine and thin, a piece of work for food and life, did a plan form in his head. The strings crossed and connected, forming a web of his own. Well, a plan? It was… half a plan. A quarter plan? Perhaps maybe one-fifth of a plan. Whatever. It was a plan.

Putting the brush back in the dirty watered bucket, he looked left and right to see if anyone was keeping an eye on him, but all seemed clear. He came off the floor, hurrying to his room. He had fifteen minutes tops. That had to be enough. Tossed in the corner, once forgotten by a spectator, lay a small backpack catching dust. He had claimed it as his own, though it may have been stealing because the owner came looking for it one day, and Steve said nothing. It was a nice bag, and Steve thought he may need it someday. That day was today.

He stuffed some small things in there, not much because he owned very little, but what he thought to be needed if he was really going out there. A bottle of water, a flashlight he had stolen from Garrett once, his pocketknife – he had hesitated shortly, he did not like knives – and his notebook plus pencil. He quickly put on his sweater jacket, and leaned out the door, checking the way once more for any sign of his handlers. Nothing.

Sinister thoughts bubbled up in his head, like sinister thoughts liked to do whenever he was about to make a decision. What if he was caught? What if they saw him? He would be screwed seven ways to hell and back, not just for now but for the rest of his miserable life too, probably. They would never let him out of their sight again – not that he had much freedom now either, but at least he had some freedom to walk around – and he would never have a chance to get out of here. They would–

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, looking at the thing he recognized clearly to be Rumlow’s wallet. It was right there. On the table in the small kitchen. No Rumlow in sight. Steered by his impulse that had gotten him into trouble more than once, Steve reached out and snatched the thing from the table, quickly stuffing it into his backpack as well before he rushed off to the car that waited outside.

It was his own fault; Rumlow should have watched his own stuff more carefully.

Sneaking outside, he eyed up the people of the car with care. There were three, two of them had left the car, and a third, the one who had welcomed them to the warehouse, was now saying them goodbye. He would have to go in soon, otherwise he would the best opportunity he may ever have had. Perhaps it was not the smartest of ideas, and if he got caught it could go really wrong – as in all the things that _could_ go wrong _would_ go wrong, and he would be screwed harder than he ever was.

But at least he would have taken the risk.

He had much more chance of getting far this time, as it would be someone else’s car driving him to the city. He checked his bag quickly; the wallet and other stuff was still there.

When the third man turned around and walked away, all words that had to be spoken said, and the two others climbed in the front of their car, Steve rushed at the trunk, staying as lowly as he could while the other two chatted up a bit, putting their seat belts on and flipping through the radio stations for some music. With careful movements, Steve popped the trunk of the car open, climbing inside and pulling the lid closed.

Then, he waited.

A minute or so later, the car roared to life, trembling with the engine, and small stones scrunched beneath the tires of the vehicle. It moved, and Steve held his breath, biting down hard on his lip to keep small sounds from escaping him. This was it. He was leaving. The car began its ride, the tires going from loose pebbles to a smooth road, and Steve let his breath escape, a tad dizzy now, but happy. He was happy. He was going. He was leaving. He was _doing it_.

Attempt forty.

It was dark in the trunk of the car. He only knew his eyes were still there because he could feel himself blink, but they caught not a single ray of light. That was alright. Steve settled more comfortably, moving very carefully for he did not want to alarm the two men in the front. Any bump or stir could warn them of an unwanted guest driving along in their travel.

He felt smug at this victory, feeling as though he was really sticking it to Rumlow and his goons. Finally, he was free from the filthy clutches of HYDRA, at least for today. He would have fun today, a lot of fun. He would be happy for once in his goddamn miserable life, and he was going to enjoy the rest of today.

Turning a little in the trunk, he hoped there would be no more surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s gonna run into a surprise in the city? 
> 
> I tried to make Rumlow as disgusting and predatory as I could, because he’s an asshole and I don’t like him. Also because Bucky will be so angry when he finds out. Not just because he’s doing it to Steve, but because he’s doing it at all. I’m trying to write Bucky with a sense of morale. Sure, since he’s in the mafia he’s a bad guy, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad _guy_ , you catch my drift? He's not going to let this slide when he finds out👀


	4. When A Look's Not Just a Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all lovelies are too sweet oh my god🥺💖
> 
> I love every single comment you leave, I promise. They all make my day and help me write and even just work in real life. They give me so much motivation, so thank you! All of you! Your support is really appreciated💖

Even the small things had him draw in a sharp breath, and his eyes widened just slightly as he caught sight of them. From the street lights to the many cars that drove passed. He had seen _some_ cars in his life, but never this much, never on such a road, never like _this._ Never in this much colors, and never so clearly. So close. They all crawled forward for there was a long line of them. Steve wondered where it began and where it ended, and why they were going so slow.

When the car had come to a halt, finally, Steve had waited for the doors to slam closed, before he opened the trunk, sneaking out quickly before the two drivers would see him. There was no need to worry though; they had long entered the bar and were not planning to come out any time soon. Because the car was parked in a small parking lot around the corner of the building, there was barely anyone there at the moment, and the person who did happen to pass, did not see him, for they were staring straight ahead.

Like that, Steve had ran away from the car, his backpack slung over his shoulder, into the world he had not seen in fourteen long years. Right away, he ended up in a large street with hundreds of people getting towards their destination, and the shock settled deeply, for he had never been in such a big space with so many people before. Whole crowds of them walked along his sides, feet scuffling, voices carried from place to place. They passed his left and right, focused on their own little world, and no one seemed to even notice him.

For the first time in his life, people looked at him, passed him, brushed shoulders, but they did not notice him. He was but another face in the crowd, nothing more than another unknown man to them. He was nothing here. Another face. Another body. Another life.

He strolled down the street, too much to take in and he slowed down, enjoying the view that stretched out at all sides of him. The wind moved through the streets, blowing at his frame like he was not there at all, people walking around him as though he was nothing more than a ghost. Through ajar windows and opened doors of shops came a jangle of melodies, pop songs that he recognized from the radio. The crowd was a sea, and it swallowed him wholly, pushing him beneath the waves of indifference, as though no one could care less about him.

It felt amazing.

No one recognized him. No one pointed and stared. No one screamed or wrapped their fingers around his throat. No one grabbed him. No one seemed interested in him. And that was amazing.

He had never felt so free before.

Steve lay his head in his neck, staring up at the insanely high building that towered out above him. It was more impressing than anything else he had ever seen, and he wanted nothing more than to go inside and get all the way up to the top. The building looked like one that housed people with boring grey suits, filled with desks and dulled people with dulled souls that dragged themselves forward like zombies. He stepped back, deciding to find a different building. Somewhere he _could_ travel up.

As he walked down the street, he passed by many shops. He looked into their windows, like he saw other people did as well, and he was astonished by the various objects and clothes one could buy. Rumlow had never shown him things like this, such simple things for a small price, yet so luxuriously looking. It was nothing like his dirty mattress and ratted blanket. This was quality. This was clean. This was new. He was very aware of the wallet in his backpack now, and his hands itched to start spending the money that sat waiting for him.

He stopped before a shop window with televisions in it. They were flatter than Steve remembered from the warped living room of his memories, and _way_ bigger. It had been quite a few years, but everything seemed so different. So… _new_ , so… so _advanced_. It all seemed to have come from the future, because the last Steve remembered himself was that mobile phones looked like black boxes with buttons, and though he had seen Garrett and Rumlow walk around with various phones of various sizes with big screens that they tapped at with their thumbs, he had never actually owned one himself, so he had no idea how they would work. And these TV’s… they had no TV in the warehouse either, only a radio.

The man on the TV (which had surprisingly high resolution, almost as though he was right here in front of Steve, with bright colors and sharp images, and he moved so smoothly) was talking. _"Experience comfort like you have never before."_

The man looked smug, with extremely white teeth and a short haircut. Steve narrowed his eyes as the man drove a car that looked somewhat like the cars behind him, only newer and more advanced. He drove across a road, but in a flash the image changed to view the car from the other side. _Flash, flash, flash_ , the view kept changing. The transitioning was so smoothly, and Steve wished to watch actual movies on this thing. He wondered what his favorite Disney movie would look like on this.

The Little Mermaid. He remembered bits and scraps. The melody of a song but he could not quite remember all the words. _Sha-la-la-la-la-la, kiss the girl_. Something close. Sometimes he would remember more, more words, more scenes, but most of the time it was just the melody in the back of his head, and a few shots of a pretty woman with red hair. No. Not the one with the knife. The other one. Ariel. 

Steve took a step back and looked around once more. He supposed he fell out a little with his clothes. It was not that he looked like a homeless person, not at all; he was clean shaven, his hair brushed (though a little ruffled by the wind), he was wearing jeans- old, dusty jeans, but jeans nonetheless, and they were clean… somewhat. He had a plain, white shirt, nothing fancy, that, honestly, _could_ use a wash, and a sweater jacket over it. As long as you did not look at his shoes, it was fine. He really should get some new shoes, it had been years and these were horrible.

Good thing he had Rumlow’s wallet in his backpack.

All the people around him, walking deep in thought and sporting a blank stare, were wearing entirely different clothes. Colorful clothes with prints. Black pants, grey pants, white pants, blue pants. All kinds of shirts; white with stripes, white with flowers, grey with a… cat? Colorful backpacks everywhere, ladies handbags in all shapes and sizes. He saw suitcases, skirts, dresses, pantsuits, hoodies. He even saw a guy in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt!

In search of a shoe store, he walked further down the road, curious to everything around him. He looked through the windows of the shops, observing the different clothing style they had now. The addicts in the warehouse could not exactly be called ‘fashion icons’ so Steve had never quite known what people dressed like these days. Through the glass he saw some life-sized dolls without a face wearing colorful, bright clothes. He saw pants with ripped knees, something that was now fashion, apparently. He saw animal prints, and lots of clothes with a few words on them, things like ‘beach’ and ‘day off please’ and more like that.

He had no memory of any shoe store in his head, but when he saw the shop window filled with shoes of all kinds, he knew he was at the right place.

It was a nice store, for as far as stores could be nice. Steve had no idea where the bar lay for stores, but when he stepped inside he was not met with death and destruction, so it was good enough for him. There were little other people; a couple with their child choosing from a row of glitter shoes, and another man looked at shiny, polished leather shoes. The shine made him think of Barnes, how his shoes had shone.

"Hi there!" a cheery voice said, and Steve snapped his head to the side. It was a young woman, with a strained smile that was meant only for business, for customers, and she was wearing what seemed to be a uniform from the store. It had the same kind of color scheme. "Welcome to Shoes and Sales, how can I help you?"

This was his chance.

"Yeah, uh, I’m kinda looking for new shoes," Steve said, feeling like an idiot because why else would he be in a shoe store? And he tried his best to sound normal; he had no idea how people behaved in stores, what they said or did, "Mine are a little…"

He looked down at his feet, shuffling the duct-taped, half-sewed shoes a little, and he swore they fell apart a little more just by looking at them. The assistant raised her brows, and Steve could just see the surprise and a hint of amusement crawl across her face, though she tried hard to keep it in. He thought that was nice of her, at least she tried. Steve knew a few other people who were not quite as considerate.

"I see," she said, now clearly trying to hold in a giggle, "You came to the right place."

"At the right time too, I think. A few more steps and I won’t have shoes left."

The woman smiled at him again, friendly, nice, even though she was a complete stranger, and it was unlike anything Steve had ever seen. He almost felt uncomfortable, because people _never_ smiled at him. And even if they did, it was not a smile that was polite or nice, it was a smile of greed and desire. The woman lifting up a hand to show him to the racks with shoes. Her smile seemed a little more real now, not just plastered on that she most likely gave everyone who entered here.

"Good thing you’re here then," she said, "What kind of shoes do you want?"

"Sports shoes," he answered, relieved that he knew that at least. All fights in the ring were fought on bare feet, so he did not have to worry about the right fighting shoes, but it would be great to be able to run away fast and not worry his shoes were going to fall apart. "Durable. For running, jumping, those kinds of things."

"Of course, here."

After a few more minutes, he learned that the woman’s name was Riley, and she had been working here for five months now. He had completely missed her name tag so she had pointed it out, but she admitted it was her fault because her long hair kept falling in front of it. She liked keeping it draped down the front of her shoulders and chest, she said it made her face come out better. It did. She had really nice hair.

It was all useless talk while he tried on shoes, but it felt right. It felt _nice_. It felt _normal_. He was having an actual conversation with another human being that was not an addict, riled up, aggressive, out for nightly favors, or who was his handler. This was an actual, normal human being with an actual job and a real life. Someone who worked a steady day, wrapped up and went home. To her girlfriend, apparently. That must be nice. To live together with someone you love. To actually feel comfortable in your own house.

He ended up with a pair of cool sneakers. They sat snugly around his feet, but not too much. He still had some room left, and they were so silent on the floor. They squeaked a little in the beginning, but Riley said that would stop once he had walked them in. They were not white, but black. Black and hues of grey. Just like he wanted it. Dark and difficult to be found in the middle of the night. His white shoes had stood out like a sore thumb.

Riley gave him the price, and Steve happily pulled out Rumlow’s wallet. He swiped the credit card in front of the pay machine (he was not sure what it was called), holding his breath for a short moment as he feared the card had been blocked already, but then he breathed out in relief when the thing beeped shortly and the transaction was completed. _He had just bought shoes with Rumlow’s money_ , _he was so dead_.

"Have a nice day!" Riley said, smiling brightly at him.

"Thank you," Steve said back, smiling as well, "You too!"

It felt like a new beginning when he dumped his old sneakers in the trash, wearing his brand new ones. They felt heavenly, so soft from the inside, so nicely fitting around his feet. His steps felt so much easier. So much better. Running would feel much nicer as well, probably. Crossing the street with the herd, he wondered what to do next. What else could he treat himself to with Rumlow’s money?

No, that wasn’t right. It was _his_ money. He had worked for fourteen years and reeled in a nice small fortune for HYDRA; he was allowed to spend a whole lot of that. They owed him a few thousand dollars at least. Probably way more. A million dollars! He had no idea how money worked. He knew as much as buying and selling, but it ended there. He knew little about earning money; how much was enough to get around, and how much could be considered ‘a lot’? When did you earn ‘a lot’? Where was the line? He had no idea.

What he _did_ know, however, was that all these years they had held back all his salary, which was at least a few hundred a night. Considering that he fought twice a week, fifty-two weeks a year for fourteen years, with sometimes additional fights or better nights… he was not that good at math. Or… _school_ in general. He could read some, and write a little, but it stopped there. No other languages, no math, no geography. He had been yanked out of ordinary life before he could start high school, so he was pretty much sucky at everything. Garrett had taught him some basics, but even that was not nearly enough to actually get around with.

It was not a nice thought. How useless he was. He barely read anymore either, there were a few magazines he looked through once in a while, reading the words, and a radio he could listen to, but little else. Math and grammar and geography, and a basic knowledge of society… he lacked all that. It made escaping even harder, because what _could_ he do?

No, he would not think of that. It was not important right now. 

He was out, _that_ mattered. Somewhere that was not the storage warehouse, or the dusty road, but somewhere completely else, and so Steve kept walking with his elbows tucked into his sides, eyes darting from one person to the next, taking in their appearance, their hair and shoes and coats, and he tried not to think about what would happen if he went back. He caught sight of a couple, middle-aged, holding hands as they looked in a shop window. The man pressed a kiss to the woman’s cheek, and Steve felt his stomach clench. 

As they stood there, Steve slowed his pace slightly, watching them from a distance, his gaze lingering on their expressions of happiness with his lips parted barely, and- 

He looked away, the ache like a punch to his stomach, worse than a broken rib. He lifted a hand, rubbing at his head to get the dull ache to leave. It was like a headache, throbbing slightly. He took a few deep breaths, hugging himself closely while pretending he could keep himself from falling apart. 

The thing was, he had no plan. Not the one. It had been an impulse decision, and now he was wondering around with new shoes, and a little money to his name, but nothing else. No house, no identity. Who was he, really? Was he Steve, or the Captain of Death? He did not know. And even if he was Steve, Steve Rogers, his word was not enough for people to have him. He needed one of those plastic cards that the people of the warehouse often had to show. With their name and everything on it. He did not have that. He had nothing. 

Beside that, he did not want to go back to the warehouse, not without finding something that would promise him a better future. If he went back without changing anything, he would have to spend the rest of his life in the same misery as before. The thought of going through all that for so many more years was too painful to handle, and it terrified him, sending a stream of ice-cold panic surging through his veins. 

Though he hated to admit it, he needed Barnes. 

Needed him. 

It was not only a matter of needing, it was a matter of _wanting_. Barnes could get him out of there, but so could the police. He could go through one of those stations right now and tell them what kind of shit was going on at the warehouse, and give them the exact times all the good stuff happened. It would be a huge opportunity for the cops, taking down a fight and drug ring, but the thing was… Steve didn’t want them to. He wanted _Barnes_. And if he stepped to the cops it would not just be Rumlow who would get hit.

No, he wanted Barnes to come and help him. So badly. Like he had never wanted anything before. It was like a raging flame burning under his skin, snapping his muscles and ripping a hole in his chest. The desire hit him harder than a bus, and he had to take deep breaths to try and calm himself. He was overthinking it, Barnes didn’t care about him, why would he? But Steve wanted him, wanted him so badly. 

The more he tried to push it away the more he thought about it, and barely a few seconds later his head was filled to the brim, sending it to the brink of collapse. _James Barnes. James. Barnes._ He turned that name around and around again and again in his mouth, working his tongue around every syllable, twisting it with his tongue, letting it flow across his lips, and he imagined him saying it out loud, to Barnes. He imagined Barnes whispering _Steve’s_ name. So softly. So gently. 

It had always been a desire of him. The knight on the white horse. Like his memories that lay deeply buried in his head, the face of the knight had always been blurry, distorted, vague. There was no name to his face, no face to the body. There was nothing but the imagination of a random person coming by to swoop him off his feet, but now…

Now that blur had a name. Now that blur had a _face_. James Barnes. 

_Pathetic_. 

Steve snapped his head to the side, scowling at himself for letting it get that far. James Barnes was not a knight on a horse. He was a dangerous mafia boss, who had probably gotten rid of his share of people, and who ran drug rings and fights and who knew what else. Barnes was not going to rescue Steve, that was idly hoping. A stupid dream. Childish imagination. He was alone. 

With his head cocked slightly, he stood still before a jewelry shop. The golden necklaces and rings and bracelets shimmered in the light, with the most beautiful little pendants decorating them. They were really expensive, but Steve was not looking for a price or to buy. He just wanted to look. There was one necklace that caught his eye immediately, though he was not sure why. It was a necklace with a small heart pendant. A blue heart. It looked so ridiculously, mind-warpingly familiar that Steve just wanted to reach inside and force the inanimate object to tell him where they had met before.

It was a two hundred-and-fifty dollars. Probably not even that much for a ‘real’ necklace with a gemstone and everything, so he supposed it was fake. Or made from a cheaper kind of stone. He did not care. It was a beautiful heart, and he could not shake the feeling he had seen it before. Would he be able to earn it? A few hundred dollars a night, that should do the trick easily. Two times fifty-two was… a hundred and four. That times fourteen equaled… fourteen hundred something? That was over fourteen hundred times that he had fought. That was a lot of money.

"Nice choice, the blue would really compliment your eyes."

Steve’s heart skipped a beat.

The sudden sound jarred him right back to the present, and as confusion bled in, a moment’s worth of hesitation passing in his chest, as he was afraid it was Rumlow, though the two voices were nothing alike. He was afraid that he had been found and that he was going to get dragged back already, not having spent nearly enough time in this city, in this new environment. He wanted more time to explore, to see things, to buy things, to watch people, to be in peace, he could not do that if Rumlow kept trailing him and dragging him back to the warehouse.

The voice that spoke was rich and masculine, making the small hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand right up, though not in fear. It was a voice that reached to the bottom of his stomach and pooled there, warm and full. Goosebumps dotted his arms even under the sleeves of his sweater jacket, and he turned around quickly to find the source of the voice. He blinked once, and it took a second or two for the new presence to sink it, even though it was right before his eyes, clear as day. 

All the air left his lungs at once, and all he could do was stare. It was not Rumlow. Or any man from the warehouse, at that.

It was James Barnes.

Only Steve would bump into the head of the Sevastyanov family in a crowded city that was bigger than anything Steve ever remembered seeing before, after being stuck in a warehouse for more than a decade and never coming outside. It made his stomach stir a little with suspicion, though he tried to push it away. Coincidence. That was all.

"Mister Barnes," Steve breathed out, surprised, "I didn’t see you there."

"Just arrived," Barnes answered, the smile that played around his lips was so easy that Steve felt jealous. Then, the man nodded at the shop window, at the jewelry behind. "Thinking of buying something?"

"I was just… well, looking. It’s a nice necklace." Steve turned his head to look at it again. The twinkling pure blue, the silver cord, and the horrible familiarity of it all. Not just the rich blue color, not the silver cord or the heart, but all of it combined. Something about it made him want to scream and break things, just because he had seen it before but could not remember when or where. 

"It is," Barnes agreed, looking at it as well, and Steve did not fail to catch the shimmer of sadness that slid across his face, as though looking at the piece of jewelry stirred up old memories in his head, showing him pictures of old that brought him no joy. That was not right, Steve did not want him to feel bad. Barnes took a breath. "Looking for a friend, or yourself?"

"Uhm, neither. Just walking. I saw it, and just… well, looked." Steve fiddled nervously with his hands, standing there a tad awkwardly as his cheeks colored themselves red as he was cruelly reminded by his own brain of what he had just been thinking about. 

It was one thing to imagine James Barnes saving him like a prince from a faraway land, it was a whole other seeing him stand here, in the flesh, looking so alive and big and dangerous and _handsome_. The words had died in Steve’s throat, and he did not think he would be able to try to explain his situation to Barnes even if he wanted to. It would be… too much. Too complicated. Too dumb and pathetic.

"Would you walk with me?" Steve asked then, speaking too fast for his brain to fully catch up, and he cringed at his own words, muscles tensing as he realized just how forward he had been. They were just looking at a shop, what kind of question was that? _A stupid one_.

But Barnes didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t even seem surprised, and Steve was left wondering just what was needed to throw this man off, if only just a little. A smile brightened the man’s features, softening all hard edges that had been so visible before. "I would like to."

With a small nod of his head, Steve motioned at the path before them, and as he hauled his backpack strap more securely over his shoulder, he led the way. He did not know where they were going, he did not know what was at the end of the street, but walking was good. One step at the time, further in life. Barnes followed swiftly, staying at his side, falling into step beside him, and it was almost nice, someone to walk with in silence, but Steve could not help but glance to his right. 

He was curious to the man that was James Barnes.

Confidence really did ooze from Barnes’ frame, shining through in the way he walked, with his coat swaying at his sides, and in the way he carried himself, with squared shoulders and head raised high. In the breeze of early noon the strands of his hair fluttered around his ears, tussled just enough to give it a soft curl at the base, flying into his eyes, and he flicked his head a little to remove them. 

It was true; Barnes was pretty, but in a way that a handsome man could be called pretty. With his sharp jawline and his vivid eyes and those lips… Steve should not be staring at them, thinking about them. 

Barnes soon noticed him staring, and with an eyebrow quirked slightly he caught Steve’s curious glance. "See something you like?"

Though his face did not exactly flush red in a obvious blush, like what happened more often whenever he was embarrassed, Steve did feel heat rise to his cheeks, and his eyes flew up to James’. The man must have known he was staring. Breath held, he waited for a leer. A mocking comment. The soft of thing that Rumlow had always hurled at his head, but surprisingly, none came. 

He had not meant to stare, honestly, but he just could not help himself. The jeans Barnes was wearing, together with the coat and the hair that seemed so thick and soft, he wished to run his hand through it, play with it, braid it. Tug it. And those glacier eyes made him want to jump in and drown, though he supposed that was not the best of ideas.

His smile was blinding, there was simply no other word for it. The man was stunningly handsome when he gave the bare minimum of a smile. Somehow, he radiated a peaceful calm that left a weird tingle at the base of Steve’s spine, crawling down from his neck. So strange, yet so captivating. 

"Hello?" Barnes asked then, raising both eyebrows. He lifted up a hand to wave it in front of Steve’s face, "Earth to Captain? Captain, do you copy?"

"Yeah," Steve said, blinking a few times, "I copy. Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare."

Barnes pursed his lips, shrugging a little, then he turned his head with a grin and a wink that had Steve weak in the knees. "That’s alright. It’s not like I haven’t been checking you out either."

Caught in surprise by that statement, Steve opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again after thinking it through once more. He was not quite sure what to say, or if the implications Barnes made were truly there instead of his imagination running wildly. He gave a tiny shake of his head instead, turning it a little as to take another look at the shops at his sides.

After a moment, something pricked his neck; eyes. Barnes was looking at him, he just knew it. Steve glanced back, and he was right.

Though his lips curled up into a small smile, Barnes said nothing, and he continued his stare all the same. Soon, the eyes were back onto Steve’s body, and he felt watched in a way that he had never experienced before. It was not a look of lust or want, of desire like that of others of the past, not at all. It was nothing perverted that he would rather not see. It was a look that expressed surprise, awe, a kind of curiosity. It was like nothing he had felt before, only part of it feeling familiar, though the rest was a thousand miles from his grasp.

It was like Barnes knew something, something about Steve, and he was trying to figure out more.

Steve could only guess what that could be, and if it was what he thought it was. Surely, Barnes did not know of his secret, did he? Of his stay at the warehouse, of his clouded past, his forgotten memories and the way he had been treated for years? Surely, if Barnes knew, he would have spoken about it, said something, but he did not, so Steve wondered. He wondered if he had slipped up somehow. Slipping was dangerous. He could not control himself when he did.

Even though he had been tired and felt his dip in his blood sugar, his adrenaline drop, he was sure he had betrayed nothing. He had not had a breakdown in months, and he did not feel like he would get one soon either. He felt… _alright_ , dare he say it. He kept the tantrums in for as long as he could, and he was slowly getting better at it. Though he could not ignore the dull ache that settled in his chest, his heart and soul, he could ignore it enough to continue his everyday business. Not that this was ‘everyday business’, but being away from that warehouse was nice. It was… liberating. 

"That was a joke," Barnes said eventually, shaking his head a little with a smile on his face, "Didn’t mean to sound creepy."

Yes, Steve knew that. Sort of. Still, it was nice of him to explain. Steve tried to offer a smile of his own. "It’s okay, I don’t mind."

Then, Barnes made the mistake of reaching out a hand to try and touch Steve with. It was absolutely nothing, just a hand on his clad bicep, but it was so sudden and unexpected, and all of Steve’s senses dialed up to eleven out of ten, the hairs in his neck raising, his eyes widening, his mind _screaming_ at him something was wrong, and before they could make contact, Steve flinched away, out of reach, grabbing his arm at the place Barnes wanted to touch as he stared the other down in shocked surprise.

Barnes stared back with much of the same in his eyes, though hurt confusion fit in there as well. There was a silence between the two, tensed, awkward. Barnes furrowed his eyebrows and had his lips parted in a silent question, his features jumping from one emotion to the other, from just plain shock from the reaction, to confusion, to hurt, and then back to confusion but with a little bit of hurt through it.

This was a big mistake. Steve could hit himself. This was not normal. _He_ was not normal. He already gave people reasons to stare at him, to turn their heads when he passed or become awkward when talking to him. He did not need to give anyone else another reason to see him as weird, as a _freak_. He was already their Captain of Death, who healed unusually fast and could do things other people could not, he was feared and treated like roadkill, he did not need to give people another reason to see him as the weirdo. The one everyone would rather avoid.

After a moment more of inner turmoil, Barnes broke the silence between them. "Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I will keep my hands to myself."

_Freak._

"No, it’s not that." Steve licked his lips, biting down on the bottom one softly as he thought. He could try to explain, he could try to fix the situation and bring back the ease of just a minute ago. He could try to make it better with a joke, only he was not good at jokes, and he had the social skills of a skunk. He was used to hiding, being silent and scaring people away, not elevate tension.

"I just don’t– I don’t like it when people…" The words trailed off. For further explanation, Steve made a bit of a vague gesture that meant nothing at all, fingers clenching to fits and uncurling again as anxiety built up in his chest, and Barnes curious gaze did not make it any easier, "I had some very, uh… _unpleasant_ experiences. In the past. So I just… I get spooked when it comes out of nowhere. I just didn’t expect it, I guess…"

Images of rejections and hateful words fluttered through his head, how Barnes would turn away from him in disgust if he knew, if he knew how pathetically desperate Steve was to be touched, for anyone to touch him. So desperate, that he would try to get it from _Rumlow_ , from his abusers that touched him where he should not be touched, but he would do anything to get that brush of fingers on skin.

The place where Barnes had nearly touched him was cold; it prickled softly, like small needles.

 _I hate it, but I need it_.

He tried to look for words to explain what was wrong with him without giving everything away, without baring himself in a manner that he was not ready for, or scare off his future teammate at the first moment they met, but Barnes seemed to understand. Part of it, at least. The slight widening of brown eyes, a jaw clenched just this little bit, it told Steve enough for him to know that what Barnes was thinking of, was not entirely accurate.

Being touch-averse… He knew exactly how it sounded, and what went through people’s mind first, what they thought of him. It was natural for people to paint other pictures in their heads than every touch bringing pain, when someone said they were touch averse. When someone avoided physical contact, showing distress and fear upon getting it, words were not often needed though they were seldom correct.

"Oh," Barnes said, his voice softer than before. He had his hands pulled back, flexing uneasily even when the glove sat around it. That had not been Steve’s intention either.

"I didn’t tell you for pity," Steve said, holding onto his own belt as to keep himself steady, to calm a raging tide in his chest, "I just wanted to tell you, because you seemed hurt when I... I can act weird because of it. It… " He sighed, his own jaw clenched. "I don’t like surprises. Being grabbed when I don’t expect it just makes me… uncomfortable."

The lies he told may have burned harder than his skin. The sadness that sat deeper than any hand could reach stirred upon his untrue words. He avoided it, yes, but he _wanted_ it. He _needed_ it. And the thought of never being able to get it, to be touched, to be _loved_ , it hurt more than anything in the world. To know he could never feel that brush of fingers across his skin, caresses of his bare body as heat and breaths mingled, lips on lips and lips everywhere else. To know he could never get it, _hurt_. It burned colder than any hit.

Words of his experiences brought along memories. The very memories he had tried to push away and avoid for as long as he could. It brought along images of a young woman wrapping her arms around him tightly. Of a young brunet clasping his hand. Or almost worse were the eyes of pity, looking at him so sadly and made him feel more of an outcast. Made him feel even more different than he already was. Made him want to cry and curl up into a ball forever.

"In the warehouse," Barnes said, sounding a little unsure, which threw Steve off a little, "Did I make you uncomfortable? When I pulled you in my lap? You seemed so tired, I hope I did not force you into a position you would have rather not been in."

 _Was he joking?_ The problem was how sudden the touch of a hand could be, and that he did not always expect it. It applied to the things like fingers curling around his throat, nails digging into his skin, being yanked around, hurt. What Barnes did was _nothing_ like that. Not only had Steve been very aware of what happened at what time, no surprises at all, it had also been gentle and kind, exactly what Steve wanted and needed.

That position may have been the most exciting and wondrous thing that had happened to him in literal _years_. That position may have been one of the very few nice things he had in so long, a kind of intimacy that was not pain or threat. Thick thighs to sit on, fingers stroking his bare skin, hands right there to share warmth. Though Steve was sure he had been uncomfortable at the time, thinking back of it only made him long for it more.

"No, you didn’t," he answered, and he shrugged, vaguely, a certain redness and heat crawling to his cheeks, "I- I liked it."

For a moment, he thought to see something of a smile on James’ face, a little grin at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone before Steve could blink to clear his sight, and he was left wondering if it had even been there in the first place.

"Good," Barnes said, "I did too."

Steve looked up, slight surprise displayed on his face before he schooled his expression back to something plain. Something normal. "It’s the surprise, really. Getting touched when I don’t expect it. When I do, I don’t mind all that much. There’s a difference."

"I understand. I will keep that in mind."

"I liked it..." Steve said, trailing off once more and he started to hate his throat for making it so hard, falling into silence as he sought the right words in his mouth, not happy with most of them, unsure which to form and which to leave, he did not want to make any mistakes. "I liked it when… well, when _you_ did it." 

He released a breath, heavier than he intended, shoulders slumping, face twisting up into something sad, something… _ashamed_. He hunched into himself, almost instinctively, sucking in his lip and biting down on it. He felt the flush all the way to the tip of his spine, a cold shiver ripping up and setting its sharp claws in him. He shook his head, rolling his shoulders a little, and he cleared his throat. 

"I’m sorry, that was stupid," he said, purposely avoiding Barnes’ gaze, afraid to see something disappointed, something _appalled_. "I- No, never mind." A sigh slipped passed his lips, and he shrugged again, sharply, the corners of his mouth twisting down. "I’m sorry."

"Hey, no," Barnes said, something so horribly soft to his words, "Don’t do that. It’s okay."

Barnes slowed his steps, coming to a halt, and he turned to face Steve. Their eyes crossed, and Steve averted his own to the side, to keep himself from staring at the other directly. Something hot pooled in his stomach, a buzz like a bee was flying around in there somewhere. A hundred bees. When nothing was said, Steve dipped his head a little beneath the piercing gaze, bringing his hands together to fumble nervously with his knuckles, having no idea what to say for himself.

He flinched slightly when he felt fingers ghost across his cheek, trailing down his jaw until they settled under his chin, grabbing it gently, but lifting it with a certain firmness. He could do nothing but look up, blue settling onto dark ones. Blue. Icy blue eyes that seemed to look straight through him, through his very soul. It was...

Relaxing. A little. Enough to make him release that breath that had been stuck in his throat, and his hands still in their movements. It was strange, in a way. Almost invasive. Enough that it made the muscles in his shoulders tense as though bracing for a hit of some kind, but not enough to frighten him. It was new, unusual, and he was unsure what to do with himself. Was it bad that it was pleasant? Was it bad that the buzz in his stomach gained strength and rumbled in his chest? There was no shock of adrenaline, no rage that burned his eyes, no anger or heightened senses that proclaimed a threat to arise, the kind that he always got when in the presence of others. The kind that he used to protect himself with. 

This was different. So very different. 

Being nothing but a fighter in the ring, fighting all night and sleeping all day, Steve had never given the ones higher up much thought. He had never paid that much attention to any bosses or leaders, as the men of war and high status rarely caught his interest. Ever since Barnes had entered the warehouse, he had not been what Steve had imagined. He had expected a tired face, hard eyes, ice and pain visible in pools of color. He had expected scars.

The eyes were soft. Though they were pale and sharp, they held no hostility. If anything, Steve thought them to be curious. Barnes’ hair looked as soft as before, fluffy strands of hair that almost curled around his sharp jaw, waving just a little in the breeze. Black and blue clothes covered his body, hugging the right places perfectly, the colors suiting his face and demeanor.

The fingers tightened on his chin, just slightly, canting his head to the side. The icy eyes roamed down his body, taking in Steve’s own old clothes, his disheveled hair and the dirt that clung to his skin. He was very well aware of how he looked. Barnes was not put off by that, though, as he seemed as curious before, only now something else gleamed in those eyes as well. Steve did not know what it was. Perhaps interest, but he was not sure.

"Beautiful," Barnes whispered, a small smile curling up the corners of his lips. Steve’s stomach made a flip, swooping like a bird in flight, and his breath caught as he stared back into those piercing eyes. The hands let go of Steve’s face, pulled back to the man himself as he stepped backwards.

"You are not stupid," he said, looking almost like he was trying to shake off what had just happened, "If anyone should be apologizing it’s me, as it was me who could not keep his hands to himself. You are a fighter, not a pleaser." Something small and apologizing curled up Barnes’ lips, something that was a little sad, a little trying, and Steve stepped closer, unconsciously, regretting it directly after. "It is just that, when I saw you, I wanted you, with me."

 _I’m pretty sure I wanted you too_ , Steve thought, but he said nothing. 

"It’s okay," he said instead, "I think we both have things that are… difficult to explain."

"That seems to be true."

Both of them fell into silence, standing there together as the crowd weaved around them, like busy bees they scattered and joined, going left and right and around back to the front. The sound of shoes and heels was almost lost against the roar of traffic that came from the long, asphalt road. 

They all went roughly in one direction, and Steve followed them with his eyes as they went. Some with raised heads, others with their heads down, focused on the ground below, their own little world with their own thoughts and whatnot. Steve thought about his own, and what he had been planning to do here. He was not going back without the promise of a better future, and that promise could be right here, he just needed to take the chance that had just shown up at his side out of nowhere, like dinner served on a silver platter. 

This was his chance, and he knew that he would eternally regret it if he didn’t at least _try_. 

"Mr. Barnes, there is something… I–" Steve stopped himself, uncertainty filling him to the brim. He should not be doing this. This was harder than he thought, especially with Barnes looking at him like this, with the power to make it all right or very wrong. He should not speak. Not say anything. Keep it to himself as he was supposed to. If this went wrong, he would have ruined the very future he wanted to have, and everything he had done would be for nothing. "I need…"

As he tried to force out his words, Barnes tilted his head to the side, just slightly, eyes squinting in mild confusion. "You need..?"

"I need to talk to you," Steve said, feeling a little bit better now he had forced out the first part. He did not know if the rest would be easier, but at least he had made the first step. A first step was always good, the highest mountain had been climbed, and it was only downhill from here. Easier, he supposed. He hoped. He shifted his weight onto his other leg, feet nervously scuffling and he internally scowled at himself for wanting to run away.

"Alright," Barnes said, as though it was all so simple, "What’s it about? Did something happen?"

"It’s about… Rumlow, I suppose…" When Steve saw the look on Barnes’ face he backpaddled immediately, "But not like that. I’m not an advocate for him, or here to bootlick. It’s about Rumlow, about me. As in, I did something with Rumlow, and I need to talk about that with you."

Now, Barnes looked even more off-put, and it took Steve a moment to realize what he had just said. _I did something with Rumlow_. "No- wait, no. Wait. Stop." Steve held up his hands as to call a halt to whatever thoughts went through Barnes’ head, before the man would make even more wrong assumptions. "I meant the fighting. The ring. About me. HYDRA, right? And your family, with you being the head, the boss. And Garrett, who, kinda… He did- we were… something about it, we never quite got on one line, and you are… you know? And I…"

 _God_ , he was making a mess out of it. It was all so pointless. Barnes would have no idea what he was talking about, as clearly he did not know of Steve’s condition, which meant that Garrett and Rumlow had never told him, so Barnes would have no clue. There was no saying how Barnes would react either, whether he would be surprised, disgusted, horrified. It would not be easy, he knew that. It would be difficult. More than difficult. It would be… impossible.

 _Impossible_.

Barnes would never understand. No one would. Not here. Not now. Or worse: he would not care. He would not care that Steve had fought for so many years, and was tired and desperate to get out. He would not care that Steve had been at this since he was twelve years old, crying for his parents, afraid in the dark, slammed into the floor more than once to grow character. Malnourished, dehydrated, locked in the dark for days for trying to escape. It would only pull more attention to him, give Barnes a reason to avoid him.

They would make him disappear, get him off the radar and eliminate him, having him disappear from the public eye forever. Barnes would not understand, because all the Sevastyanov family cared about money and real estate, not some backyard ring fighter, especially not one of HYDRA’s. Not of Rumlow, not of Garrett. He had worth for as long as he could get them a nice paycheck, besides that he was worth nothing.

Upon being told the whole story, kidnapping and forcing to fight as a child and all, Barnes would probably just shrug and scoff, only caring about the profits like all the others, so what hope was there for Steve? None, probably. It would be pointless, useless, he should just leave before he made a mistake there was no coming back from.

"And you..? What are you saying? HYDRA’s ring fighting?" Barnes asked, the corner of his lip curling up a little in confused amusement, a kind that he was not sure how to place.

"Nothing," Steve answered, visibly deflating, "It doesn’t matter. It was… no, it doesn’t matter. Uhm. Sorry for bothering you." Steve took a few steps back, slowly edging towards the street. "I just remembered… well, _things_. Thank you for… walking, with me. I’m just gonna go now. I guess."

Barnes looked very confused, mouth opening and closing, but Steve did not wait for an answer, or for anything, really. Waiting for things would have him wait till his death, and he wanted to get out of this situation before he embarrassed himself even further. Before he would spill secrets that were better left hidden far, far away. Deep down, where no one could ever reach. Stupid. Stupid for thinking he could do this. Stupid for leaving, for crossing the lines.

"You wanna go get lunch with me?" Barnes blurted out then.

Steve stopped in his tracks, a frown coming to his face as he turned back. "What?"

"I don’t know," Barnes said, a small shrug to his shoulders, "You look hungry. You look…" There was a vague gesture of his hands, little of a wave towards Steve’s presence, lips forming a line as eyebrows furrowed. Barnes was looking for words, trying to rake them up from his mind and his throat, having certain difficulties as it appeared.

"I look..?" Steve repeated, curious to what others thought of him, especially now. Now that he was free and out in the wild. Now that he was not in the warehouse and looking a little more alive. Now that he was not on the floor or fighting in a ring. He remembered Barnes words. _Beautiful_.

"You look like you’ve not been taken care of. Not to dump all over Rumlow’s work," Barnes added quickly, as to not make Steve feel insulted, but the blond had absolutely no problem dumping over Rumlow’s work because the man’s work was trash, "But you look sad. And a little thin. C’mon, get lunch with me. My treat. We can talk about what’s bothering you."

That took Steve aback, just a little, and he was left speechless for a few seconds. Two women passed by on his side, deep in conversation about last night’s episode of a show Steve had never heard of, but that had something to do with an oblivious woman and a devil. It was a brief distraction, fading out swiftly after, and he had to answer the question, probably. 

He turned his attention back to Barnes. "Nothing is bothering me."

"Sure," was Barnes’ simple reply, "I know a nice place. We can go right now."

Steve did not say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're going to dinner! Bada-bim bada-boom!!
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed and I'll see you guys next chapter!💖
> 
> I have a really positive feeling for this story, I might get really far with this... I often have trouble finishing things, so I leave my work and start a new one, or nothing at all for a while, but I have a lot of ideas, process, and I really like to write this story.


	5. The Little Things That Give You Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before but I'll say it again: YOUR COMMENTS AND KUDOS ARE APPRECIATED SO MUCH I LOVE YOU!!!
> 
> No but seriously, to all the people who took their time reading my story, giving kudos and leaving me such a sweet comment, you're appreciated so much. I absolutely love it, and I want you to understand how happy and good they make me feel. I read them when I feel down, and they never cease to cheer me up because your words are so kind, so uplifting. So for that, from the bottom of my heart, thank you💖

At first, he thought it might be a trick. 

It was wrong of him to assume, to think like that, but he could not help the thoughts that pushed their way to the front and made him doubt every single thing that presented itself to him. This was all far from protocol, from anything normal, and he was unsure what to do with it. He wondered if it was a trick to make him open up, to make him slip, manipulation dealt out like candy, and he ate it all up. 

He wondered if it was a way to get him to disobey and tell what should never be told, thus offering himself up to a kind of punishment that Garrett would never allow. Rumlow would, though, he had promised Steve that. He said, after Garrett left, that as soon as Steve would slip up, he would retaliate, _hard_. This was not like that. Nothing happened, and that was odd. 

When they entered the restaurant, Barnes had led them towards the table that was apparently theirs to take. No one seemed to look up from their own food or conversation, no one seemed to be bothered by their sudden presence, no one stared at them, and no one approached to chase them away. Barnes gestured at the chair for Steve to sit down in, which led them to the second issue. 

Chairs were a privilege he was not always granted, and he was insecure about sitting down. It was ridiculous, of course, he knew that, but he could not help but feel afraid it might be pulled out from under him did he attempt to sit down in it. It was almost cruel, but James noticed nothing, and that made it even more cruel. Rumlow often had him sit on the floor, to differentiate between the owner and the owned, and though Steve highly doubted James felt even the least the same, it was still difficult to think about. 

The awkwardness of standing while he was so clearly supposed to sit, won, and Steve placed himself down gingerly, warily, on the edge of the seat, his hands on the table, visible for all attended parties. The handlers often wanted to see his hands, for he had a tendency to hide things under the table, or steal things when he wanted to. Barnes did not seem to notice, or think anything about it. 

And then… then the food came. 

Lots of it. 

"I take it you’re hungry?"

Steve peeked up from under his lashes at the man sitting opposite to him, cheeks coloring slightly red as he stopped chewing, suddenly very self-conscious about what he had put into his mouth. He nearly took it back out of his mouth, were it not that they were in a restaurant and Steve was not some sort of animal or a caveman, and putting half-chewed food back was _gross_. It did put him in an uncomfortable spot.

When they had sat down, it only took a minute or so for a young man in an apron to appear at their table, and pass them two books. Menus. Steve had opened his, and the gravity of the situation, _his_ situation, started to sink in. He didn’t understand. It was as simple as that. 

He couldn’t read the menu.

The outlay was so different from the magazines he had read, all kinds of terms and words smacking him in the face and he had no idea what it was. His lips moved so silently along with the letters, trying to form the syllables so he would understand what it meant. S-and. Sand. Which. Sandwich. A sandwich, he knew what that was! But– crap. A long word with a lot of z’s and a m… Steve sighed in near frustration, having no idea what to do. He knew ‘bread’, he wasn’t _that_ bad at reading… but there were a lot of other words than ‘egg’ and ‘bread’ and… c-clam? Clam? What in the world was a clam?!

He must have looked either panicked or intimidated about all the choices before him, because Barnes had noticed enough of it to gently push down the top of the menu to look him in the eyes, and then he told Steve that he would order for the both of them. 

Relief had flushed his system; he would have had no idea what to order for himself. 

After their orders had been passed through, it took a few more minutes for it to come. In the meanwhile, Steve had been silently looking around the restaurant, scoping out all the exits in a force of habit before he caught himself and tried to relax. It didn’t work. 

The restaurant was quite full, but not overly so. Though, Steve supposed, he had a screwed up view of what was ‘full’ and what not. He mostly knew the full evenings of the fights, not restaurants. But, judging from the empty tables compared to the full number of tables, it seemed that it was filled. 

There was an old couple eating side by side, their movements slow but their smiles wide. Steve looked at them for a moment, their wine glasses and their moving lips in a conversation that he did not follow. Then he moved on, to the group of young women in their twenties giggling in major glee while another couple at a table nearly frowned at them. 

Close to the door, there was another man, but Steve could not quite see him. He was wearing a coat, and standing just out of view. Steve could only see his boots and shoulder. He paid little mind to it. The noise level was moderate, perfectly fine to talk through. 

Fifteen minutes of awkward one-sided small talk later, lunch had arrived. He had been served an enormous platter of food, and Steve’s eyes had nearly rolled out of their sockets in surprise. It was more than he had ever had at once. Garrett and Rumlow had always kept his portions small, compact, nutritious but with little flavor or diversity. This was… this was so much more. 

Eggs, ham, a pile of fried potatoes, right there before him. It was normal. No one seemed to think this much food was odd. No one looked at him oddly for having this. A tureen of fruit he did not recognize sat in ice to keep it cool for him to eat for dessert. Even the basket of bread and rolls that was put on the table as some sort of side-food, would be enough to keep him fed for a whole day. He had been given a large glass of orange juice too, fresh and very, _very_ orange.

Barnes had the same meal, and Steve had watched in silence as the man put a napkin in his lap, rolling up his sleeves a little before he took the fork in his left hand, and the knife in his right one. Steve had mimicked him, with the napkin and the fork, but his right hand had flexed nervously as he looked at the knife. A steak knife with ragged edges, perfect to cut through wiry meat. Meat that was not necessarily that of an animal. He had swallowed, thickly, pulling his hand back under the table. He waited until Barnes had taken a bite before he did. 

It must have looked bad, him eating lunch like he thought it was poisoned. 

With his fork, he had scooped up some of the omelet, cheesy with dark leafy greens, and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly, tasting carefully, never taking his eyes off of Barnes to see what he would do. Then, the taste took over. It was heavenly. The food was hot, and full of flavor, with a pinch of salt, and other spices he could not name. He had licked his lips, peeking up shortly at Barnes, who was calmly eating as well, before he took another bite. And another one. His stomach rumbled, stirring back to life and only now he noticed how hungry he was. He was starving.

To get back to Barnes’ question, _"I take it you’re hungry"_ , he nodded, shyly. He had not meant to eat so fast, or to come across as anything like greedy, but he was so hungry. This was the first time in many years that he was given as much food as he wanted, real food, good food, and it was all right there for him to eat it. Had he not been supposed to? Was he supposed to wait? Rumlow would often set a bowl of cheap oatmeal in front of him, and then have him wait at least five minutes while the food turned into a soggy mess, before he would give Steve the green light. 

His hesitant, unsure nod must have been noticed, because Barnes held up a placating hand in response. "Hey, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. You seem really hungry, is all. It looks like it’s been a while since you had a meal."

"It has," Steve said, gripping the fork a little tighter in his hand, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth, slowly scooping up another, "Didn’t have dinner yesterday, and no breakfast or lunch today either."

"That’s…" James seemed a little put off, surprised, in a way, "Why didn’t you eat?"

Steve stilled, coming to the unfortunate realization that Barnes had no idea what was going on in the warehouse, and thus had no clue about what Rumlow put him through on a daily basis. Not the screaming, not the choking or sexual harassment, not the neglection. Not the malnutrition. A tad awkwardly, he looked away to the side, and thought of ways to explain what he just said. 

Eventually, he settled for a quick and simple, "No time. I just… uh, forget sometimes."

"How could you just forget to eat? For so long?"

"Well... I... didn't have any food at home." Yeah, he could say that. That sounded believable, right? Steve looked Barnes in the eye shortly to make it seem as though he was telling the truth. "Forgot to buy it. So when dinner time rolled around, I didn't have any, and I just went to bed without it. I was actually on my way to the store when you saw me." 

To further emphasize his points, Steve was nodding along with his story. "I was going to get myself a sandwich and some groceries for today. You had me before I could, though." 

"Oh," James said, looking a little more relieved and Steve felt like he could breathe again. "I could help you buy groceries, and get them to your place, if you want?"

 _Dammit_.

Steve licked his lips, tapping his fingers rapidly on his thigh as he thought feverishly of a good explanation. "That's really nice of you, but I'm okay."

"Really, it's no problem."

"It's fine," Steve argued, slight annoyance creeping into his voice because Barnes would just not back off, "Don't worry about it. I'll get myself something nice for dinner tonight. I’ll just eat my hat if I forget again." He added that last part somewhat playfully, like a joke, something funny to lighten the mood, and Barnes seemed to relax. 

"With some of the people I know, something like this would never happen to them. They love food. I kid you not, if they don't get their snack in time..." Barnes sucked in a hissing breath, raising his eyebrows a little, and Steve smiled. 

"They would never skip a meal, ever. They're bottomless pits, never stop eating. They're all like ‘What about second breakfast?’, you know?" Barnes chuckled, like he thought it was a funny quip of himself, and Steve smiled along for the first few seconds, until he caught on that he was supposed to understand what it meant, but he did not, and the smile slid off his face.

"I– what?" Steve asked.

"Second breakfast," Barnes repeated, looking at him like it was supposed to ring a bell in his head, but again, nothing. He had no idea what it meant, or what he was supposed to get. Was it a joke? Should he laugh? He did not know. "Lord of the Rings, right?"

Steve cocked his head to the side. "What's that?"

"You don't know..." Barnes was silent, and, in turn, Steve was as well, starting to feel a little self-conscious and uncomfortable. He didn’t know. He did not know a lot of things. What if Barnes would notice?

The prying eyes were not helping either, and he looked away, plucking at the hem of his shirt, suddenly remembering Barnes’ fingers pushing up the fabric, trailing across his bare skin so softly, so gently. He blushed. 

"Uh, what do you think of the restaurant?" Barnes asked then, changing the subject, as it seemed he was not getting an answer. As he sat back a little, Barnes gestured at the place around him, and obediently, Steve took that place in; the same attentive gaze that had been aimed at Barnes now scrutinizing the space around them. 

He looked at the group of young women, the old couple that was now finishing dessert. He looked at the man in the coat, who was still suspiciously looming there half in sight, and had they not been lunching in a respectable establishment, Steve could have thought him to be a drugs dealer. There were no drug lords here. No addicts or groupies. He was safe. He was miles away from the warehouse, they did not know he was here.

"I’ve been coming here for years. I love the coffee, and their sandwiches ain’t half bad. It’s quiet and private too. I figured you’d want that because…” Barnes stopped himself mid-sentence. Steve just stared at him, waiting for the rest. Barnes cleared his throat, the conversation turning awkward rather fast.

"Privacy is nice," Steve filled in, his voice soft and quiet with the edges of unsure. He should be striking up a conversation, he knew that. He should be trying to engage more, but the words refused to leave his mouth. 

And as Barnes was watching him with those curious eyes, he was sure the man would pick up on the strained undercurrent. Perhaps Steve’s smile, that was a little too forced. Perhaps it was the way Steve hunched his shoulders to make himself smaller. Perhaps it were his eyes, which seemed to be constantly estimating Barnes’ mood. Steve felt a lump in his throat. It wasn’t fair. 

"You’re not very chatty, are you?" Barnes asked, with the slightest smile on his face. 

It may not have been the wisest thing to say, and in the second that followed Steve tried to tell himself there was no way Barnes meant it like that. He tried to tell himself that _of course_ Barnes didn’t mean it like that, but Steve could not help but let his already uncomfortable expression fall, the tight line of his lips turning into something sad, something _insecure_ , and judging by the look on Barnes’ face he must have realized he may have put his foot in his mouth. 

It was not hard to imagine Barnes saying it as merely an observation, not because he meant something bad with it, or frame it like an accusation. He leaned forward on the table, the smile replaced by something more worrisome, and that may have ticked Steve off a little more, he was not helpless, he was fine. He just… was not the best at dealing with this.

"That came out so much worse than I originally meant," Barnes said, "I’m sorry for that. I just thought– maybe... I could...”

Steve was about looking anywhere but James right now, his eyes going all over the place, his shoulders tense and hunched again, his expression nearly distraught. He plucked at his fingers, feeling the urge to fiddle with something, occupy his hands. 

"It’s not you. I’m just not good at this," he said, pulling at his sleeves, "I just— I’m nervous. And words don’t come out so well when I’m nervous and this— you— I’m not sure how— I wanted to – but I –" The words were tumbling out faster and Steve finally worked up enough courage to look Barnes in the eyes, pale blue ones that looked sad as well, and Steve hated that. His own were filled with shame. "I _want_ to say things, but I don’t– I know you expect-"

"Hey, hey hey hey, no, listen," Barnes stopped the flow of words, though gently, not mean or invasive like Garrett or Rumlow, "I don’t expect you to– everything is well. Everything is going well. I understand, and I don’t judge. I – uh, I think we got off on the wrong foot here." 

Barnes was silent for a moment, gathering the right words in his mind and putting them in thought-out sentences. "Part of me was expecting the fighter with the sharp tongue. I heard you snap back at one of my men, and then you, quite frankly, _destroyed_ him, so I thought I would see more of that. But I see now that I shouldn’t have been trying to talk to that man, as you are someone different. And that’s alright."

 _That’s alright._ It’s alright that he was different. Barnes didn’t mind that Steve was different. He said that. Just that. Steve eased, the tension seeping out of his frame, Barnes would accept him. "I can be like that, sharp tongued. Occasionally. It’s just that I have the communication skills of a cauliflower, and sometimes it works out better than other times.”

"If it’s any consolation," Barnes said, showing his trademark grin as he reached for a piece of bread from the basket, "I like cauliflower."

A smile broke through on Steve’s face, and he laughed. It was not much, merely a few exhales of breath through curled up lips, but it was _something_ , and he could just _see_ Barnes light up at that, even just a little. 

"It’s alright, just eat," Barnes said then, pricking his fork towards Steve’s plate, "You look like you need it."

He did. He was still hungry. Steve scooped up some more egg with his fork, taking a careful bite to see if it was still hot. It was fine. It was perfect. Barnes took a few bites of his own food as well, though his eyes kept stealing glances at the blond in front of him. Steve did not mind all that much, he was long glad there was enough food to fill his belly with. This would last him for hours, which came in perfectly handy, if Rumlow decided that he would have to skip dinner again.

"I never had a lot of food growing up," Steve said, though unsure why he felt the need to tell Barnes that, "It’s why I’m not as tall as I should have been– or, could have been. I know I’m still tall… but I missed a chunk out of my growth spurt."

"A little shorter than me," Barnes said, a small smile curling his lips up, "Just how I like it."

Steve frowned, almost dropping his fork. "What?"

"What?" Barnes said back, eyebrows raised.

A heavy silence settled over them, thicker than the usual uneasy tension in the atmosphere that Steve had to deal with. This was different. This was no anger, or annoying or something alike, this was something that had been spoken out loud, while it should have stayed in thoughts. Before he could try to stop it, or hide it, a blush seared through his cheeks, and for a minute he thought his face was on fire. They were colored red like a rose, and Steve quickly grabbed his glass of juice to hide himself behind. 

Trying to avoid Barnes’ searching gaze, Steve squirmed in his seat, shuffling his feet against the wooden floor beneath them, taking a sip that was way longer than it was supposed to be, though he was drinking little, before putting it back down, and watching the white table cloth as though it was telling him the secrets of the universe. 

"So, uhm, I never got your name. The real one," Barnes added, sounding a little playful, moving on from the strange comment that had Steve feel all bashful and coy, trying to slink away from sight because he did not know how to react, "Can’t call you ‘Captain of Death’, can I?"

"Oh god, please don’t do that." Steve huffed out a laugh, though it held little mirth. It was not a name that he was proud of, not at all. Not one he would carry with honor, not even in the slightest. The thought of James calling him that was a devastating one. He cleared his throat. "No, my name, my _real_ one, is Steve."

Nothing. 

No reaction. 

The only thing Steve got was Barnes’ look that seemed to sink to the deep, dark depths of his hidden thoughts, and his eyes lost that little twinkle they had held just a second ago. Then, slowly, the man frowned, something confused and almost _angry_ shining through, and Steve had no idea what was happening. He did not like it, not at all. He had made a mistake, there was no other explanation.

"What’s wrong?" Steve asked, leaning away a little. The smile had slipped from his face, replaced by a kind of unease. "I didn’t… did I…?"

That snapped the other out of whatever stupor he had been trapped in.

"No, no, it’s fine," Barnes said, blinking a few times, and his expression turned back to the one before, though a little more plain, "It’s just… I knew someone named Steve, long ago. I thought…" There was a shrug of his shoulders, lips curling up in a smile that brought no comfort, but was rather something that forced back sadness.

"I’m sorry, I don’t think that was me..." Steve kept his voice careful, not meaning to anger Barnes in any way. He had no desire to appear on the man’s bad list. He took a soft breath. Whoever that other Steve was, he must have meant something to Barnes, something deep. He felt bad for carrying the name of a man who had been Barnes’ friend. He was not around anymore, clearly, because Barnes looked sad. Dead, perhaps? Or just away? "I think I would have remembered meeting you."

"Yeah, you’re not him," Barnes repeated, still smiling sadly at the tabletop, "If you were we wouldn’t have had this conversation."

Steve was unsure about what that meant. Whether Barnes meant that this other Steve would have recognized Barnes, or that they would have argued, hated each other? He did not know, and somewhere he did not even _wanted_ to know. It was such a shame that the conversation kept taking wrong turns, coming to an abrupt halt before a dead end, it made it much more awkward than it should have been. 

"Am I going crazy, or are those new shoes?"

Steve’s lips parted on silent words, and he brought out his foot from under the table to look at it, even though he knew exactly what his shoes looked like. Dark. New. Clean and in one piece. "Oh, yeah…" he said, somewhat grateful for the change of subject, "They’re nice. They walk really nice. I needed new ones. Paid for him with my card."

 _Why did I add that?_ Steve mustered up a smile, feeling awkward all of a sudden at the mention of his card, which was actually Rumlow’s card. He shrugged a little, not knowing what else to say, and he looked to his side as to see one of the women tell the others a story with wild hand gestures. He looked over Barnes’ shoulder, a funny feeling rising in his stomach when the man in the coat with the hat was _still there_. 

"They look really nice. Were they expensive?"

"Not really," Steve said, having absolutely no idea what ‘expensive’ was. He had not even really looked at or remembered the price, he had not cared for it at all, as it was just a bunch of numbers that meant little to him. He just used Rumlow’s card, it seemed fine. It had not refused to pay, so that was good. 

"But truly, cards are great. You just swipe it and you’re done!" Steve paused for a moment, thinking his own words through for a second or two. "Though it does seem inefficient for theft. What if someone stole my card to use it for new shoes?"

 _Nice example, dumbass_.

Thinking it to be a joke – thank god – Barnes grinned, taking a quick bite from his eggs before answering. "Totally get you. Debit cards are so easy to steal and use, that’s why most people keep an online connection to their bank. You just look at your checking account to see the transactions. If someone’s been using your card you can see immediately where and on what your money was spent, and you can block the card. Handy, right?"

Barnes was still smiling. Steve felt his insides turn to ice. 

No, that was not good. If this was true, then… then that meant Rumlow knew where he was. Or wait, Rumlow just knew that _someone_ had taken his wallet and used it in Shoes and Sales to buy new sneakers, he had no idea _who_ was doing the buying, right? He could not know that, right? There was no reason for him to assume it was Steve, he was safe. He was alright. 

Snapping his head up at Barnes, staring pointedly over his shoulder, Steve took in the man dressed in a coat with a hat pulled deep over his eyes, who had not left his position just yet. He was still standing there, still lurking, still with that stupid coat and that stupid hat, and Steve felt a bucket of ice water empty in his chest, his stomach tying itself into a knot, and he swallowed, all of a sudden not hungry anymore. 

"I guess, now that I can call you Steve, you should call me James," Barnes said then, and Steve had trouble tearing his eyes away from the man against the wall. 

"Are you sure?" Steve asked, his eyes darting to the man in the coat and back to Barnes, who lifted his cup of coffee to take a sip, "I don’t mind calling you sir."

Immediately after the last word had ended, Barnes choked on his coffee, the hot liquid going down the wrong pipe and he coughed, trying to hold it back and his shoulders shook. He put down the cup, hitting his fist on his chest a few times to push back the liquid, clearing his throat deeply. Steve just watched, feeling a little worried for him. "Are you alright?"

Barnes– _James_. It was James now. James nodded, coughing once, twice, and then he sat up straight. "Yeah, I’m okay. James is– just James is fine."

The man in the hat was still there. 

Steve’s fingers curled around the handle of the steak knife, and in a split second decision, he pulled it off the table and hid it out of view, holding it in his hand as he let his sleeve sag over it, keeping it safe and tucked away from prying eyes. James had noticed nothing, still patting his own chest. Steve had a knife now, an instrument that had him feel nervous, because he knew how much damage it could do, but he felt a little safer having a weapon. 

After long years in the fight ring, he was better with his fists, true, but a knife could make quick work of what would take fists much longer. A knife was silent. A knife could hush. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, as every scenario that he put up in his head ended with him dying, or just ending blankly, prison perhaps, the electric chair. He did not know. 

All he knew was that the man in the coat was still there, and Steve wanted him gone.

"Hey," James said, trying to catch his attention, "Are you alright?"

"I have to… uhm," Steve’s eyes darted around, "Go to the bathroom. Excuse me."

Without waiting for an answer, Steve pushed himself away from the table and rose to his feet, making a beeline for the restroom at the other side of the restaurant. He glanced back, but not at James. At the strange man. The watcher. The knife sat heavy in his hand, and he made sure to slow his steps, pushing the door of the restroom open in calm movements, still watching the stranger carefully before he went in. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the coat push himself away from the wall and come after him. 

Shit. 

The bathroom was… not what he expected. It was nothing like the bathroom at the warehouse. It had not been filthy with smears and yellow stains and a rancid smell that had him gag, not at all, but it was nothing fancy either. A toilet that he himself often had to clean, and that had been used for many, _many_ years. 

The faint scent of perfume hung in the air, of flowers and something chemical beneath. The tiled floors and walls gleamed, like they had just been cleaned this morning. One wall of spotless mirrors stood to his right, set above the pristine, white sinks with stainless steel shiny taps over them. There was a box fastened to the wall; Steve did not know what it was, and there were perfumed soap dispensers, two of them. It was a surprise, a big one, but then he remembered what he was here for. 

He opened one of the two stalls, quickly stepping inside and closing it behind him. He locked the door at first, but then changed his mind and left it open. He stepped back, turning around, and he looked at the toilet. With careful movements, he went to stand on top of it, at the narrow rim, having to duck a little because he didn’t want himself to be visible from above or under. He pulled back his sleeve, taking the knife in hand firmly. If the man was to enter, he would probably be confused for a moment to where Steve had gone, and when he went to check the stalls, Steve would advance. 

Maybe it was nothing, maybe he was being paranoid for no reason. Maybe the man had nothing to do with him and it was all one big misunderstanding. His heart pounded in his chest, seconds seemed to stretch to minute, and he got very hot all of a sudden. The stench of old piss and bleach attacked his nose, and he scrunched it up, shaking his head as to ignore it. 

He stood ready, knife in hand, ready to strike if needed. It seemed extreme, but somehow it felt right. Not right as in the right choice, morally right, but right for _himself_. He was not going down here. Not when happiness and freedom were within his reach. He deserved to get out, even for once. This was his chance, and he was not going to let anyone ruin it. 

He raised the knife, clenching the handle so tightly he was afraid he would snap it in two, sweat pooling in his palm and he swallowed heavily. The door opened, footsteps entering. 

His heart seemed to want out of his chest. It wanted to break out of its cage, escaping to the ceiling. It pounded in his chest like it was trying to break one of his ribs. His senses were on high alert; every color was brighter, every noise louder. The footsteps seemed to echo around the bathroom, louder than he wanted, sharper than the knife in his head. He took a deep breath, nearly panting, not enough air. 

The footsteps stopped, turning. The door rattled, opening. Steve rose the knife, sucking in a deep breath and he was just about to lurch forward when…

It wasn’t him.

A set of brown eyes set in a pale face looked up at him, going from his face to the knife in his hand, and the man let out a short yell, quickly jumping back out of reach. At the same time, Steve let out a startled shout as well, nearly slipping and falling, just able to grab hold of the edge of the wall at his side, one of his feet flailing and he accidentally stepped into the toilet bowl. Steve pulled a disgusted face, quickly lifting his foot back out, but it was already wet. Great. 

With quick movements, he climbed off the toilet, the knife still in hand, and the man with the hat was staring at him in shock and fear. Right. The weapon. This was a mistake. 

"I- uh, oh god. I am _so_ sorry," Steve said, quickly putting away the knife, then holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "I thought you were– someone else, sort of. I thought you were stalking me."

"W-what?" the man asked, hand on his heart, "S-stalking? What? I just wanted to use the restroom!"

"But you were looking at me!" Steve argued, seeing it clearly before him still, "With the hat and the coat, and when I went to the bathroom you followed me!"

"I was just waiting for my daughter, we always eat lunch here!" The man plucked the hat off his head – Steve now noticed his hair was dyed black, instead of the brown Steve had thought it was, and he looked nothing like Rumlow at all – to wave himself some air. "I saw you going to the bathroom and then realized I had to go too! I didn’t– my god. What were you expecting?"

"I thought you were bad news. I got scared."

"So you pull a knife?!"

Steve licked his lips, going to fumble nervously with his fingers, glancing at the exit. It was the wrong guy, not Rumlow, not anyone. Just a guy. "Look, I’m sorry. It was a mistake, alright? Just a mistake. Excuse me." 

Wasting not another word that could get him into some serious trouble, he brushed passed the man, who stepped back quickly with wide eyes, and Steve felt a pang of guilt pierce his stomach. He had scared someone. Some random, innocent man. He had made the man think he was going to be attacked, going to _die_. He did that. Not Rumlow. Not Garrett. Him.

 _Freak_. 

Weaving around the tables, Steve plopped down into the one opposite to James, waiting a moment until James was not quite looking anymore before he put the knife back on the table. It burned in his stomach, low and mean, like a clenching throb when he saw the man’s scared face before him. Only he would make a mistake like that. 

"Not hungry anymore?" James asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

There was still food on Steve’s plate. On his plate and in the small bowls. There was still fruit and egg and other things, but Steve wasn’t hungry anymore. All he wanted was to leave. His blood felt ice cold, though his head was glowing with shame. He felt uneasy, clenching the edges of his seat, dragging the sole of his now wet shoe across the floor. He shook his head. 

"I’m good."

He did not want to go back to the warehouse, but he did not want to stay here either. He wanted to get out. Out of the restaurant, away from the walls that seemed to close in on him. He wanted to go outside, to the open air, to the sound of cars and the murmur of people that had nothing to do with him. He wanted to go somewhere with lots of exits, with places he could hide. 

The man in the coat exited the bathroom, took a single glance at Steve, and then hurried at the doors of the restaurant. Steve felt his lips twist down at the corners, and he bowed his head a little, staring at his plate while tears clogged up his throat. He had done it again. Mucked everything up. 

"Hey, Steve, what did you need to talk to me about?" James asked then, crumpling his napkin in his hands after having used it to clean his mouth and fingers. "Something about Rumlow and the ring, what did you mean?"

Oh no. 

Somewhere, Steve had hoped James had forgotten about that. Forgotten about the waterfall of words that had left Steve’s lips in a desperate attempt to explain something big that had been going on for more than a decade. He had said so much, but absolutely nothing at the same time. Of course James had not forgotten about it, that was just Steve’s luck. 

"Well... the thing that I wanted to talk to you about was... it was..." Steve paused, his eyes trailing off to the right, where more tables and a glass window stood. While he made more incoherent syllables, he looked at the street outside. There were a few pedestrians, and a couple more cars drove by. A white one. A red one. A black one. Cars. An idea popped up in his head.

He snapped his head back to James, new words planted in his head. "I need a ride," he said, nodding along with his words as though he actually believed them. "I came here by car, a lift, I don't have a car myself. Could you... I mean, if you're not too busy...?"

"A ride?" James repeated, a little taken aback, as if he had been expecting to hear something else. The man blinked a few times, letting out unsure syllables before answering, "Yeah, uh, sure. Where do you need to go?"

A prickle of embarrassment flushed across Steve’s skin when he realized just what the answer to that question was. He was so close to telling James. He could still tell him. He could tell James about his crappy situation in the warehouse, that they did not treat him right, not even a little, that he was lonely and scared, and scared to be lonely. He could tell James about all of it. He could so easily.

"The warehouse..." he said, hesitantly, "I need to prepare myself. For the fight, I mean." 

James seemed to think that through for a moment, but that moment lasted only shortly, as he then shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sure, I can take you."

Steve sagged in relief, something that did not go unnoticed by James.

But even if he did know something, he didn't say a word.

**X**

The car was sleek, running over the black asphalt road so fast that the passing greenery became a hazy blur. They left the city under the cover of the night that covered them like a blanket. Steve looked outside the window, seeing darkness seep into the skies. He huddled into himself some more; the car was a tad chilly. James sat next to him, Steve did not know who was driving. Probably the silent redhead.

Feeling the movement of the wheels across the road, bouncing just a little as it followed curves and greeted each slope and bump in its smooth way, Steve’s mind filled up with fog. It had been a long day today, with a million new experiences and new people and new sights. New food and words and cars and shoes. It had all been so new, so different, and now he was sitting in James’ car, waiting for them to arrive at the warehouse. 

Of course, James had no idea that the storage warehouse was Steve’s home. He had been lucky enough that James had bought the lie, or at least rolled with it if he did not. There had been little protests, nearly nothing, and Steve felt both tensed and relieved that they were heading back. What would Rumlow say when he appeared out of nowhere? What would he do? Scream? Hit? Attack? Nothing? Steve did not know. 

Luckily, he had gotten James to agree with setting him off somewhere _away_ from the warehouse. Somewhere Rumlow would not hear the obvious rumble of the car. Like that, Steve would have a chance of sneaking in undetected. James had asked why, Steve just said he didn’t want it to turn into drama, and James did understand that.

They had left the large highway behind a quite some time ago, and Steve was plucking at his sweater jacket, trying as hard as he could to keep his eyes open. He yawned, jaw cracking softly, and his eyelids became heavier, his head bobbed forward, a haze creeping up on him from behind. After a few minutes he woke with a start, eyes opening swiftly, and he had no recollection of ever falling asleep. He was so tired, and the sway of the car and the gentle music of the radio were lulling him to sleep. 

Slowly, he drifted, floating right there in that car, struggling to stay awake though failing so miserably. The world blurred around him; he did not even try to sharpen his vision. He let it happen, he let himself float on the cloud of fluff and softness. Random thoughts and images swam through his head, but he focused on none of them. A sudden pothole in the road jarred him back to the outside world, but after a few seconds he was floating once more. 

He knew he had to stay awake, stay vigilant, but they still had a few more hours to go, and Steve was so _tired_. He wanted to go to sleep. Giving into that want, he sagged a little in his seat, head hanging left and right, and he tried to sink into that darkness, that sleep. Surely, he could close his eyes for a couple minutes, right? Just that, a couple minutes, nothing more. A catnap. 

What happened next was a blur. There may or may not have been an arm, a voice, some gentle tugging and then a comfortable surface. All he knew was that he was lying against something soft, yet firm, and there was warmth seeping into his being. His eyes drooped, muscles relaxing as he could no longer control his unbearably heavy limbs. He moved, pushing himself a little tighter against the warm surface as he closed his eyes, retreating into that safe space in his mind. 

Confusion and contentment swirled together in a shimmery haze, and he snuggled into the firm body as something curled around his shoulders, keeping him close, keeping him warm. That was nice. That was really nice. 

Like that, he drifted. Floating, as though he was on a large body of water. The gentle waves of the sea took him light and right, lulling him just enough to make it comfortable. The smell was not of salt, though, but of pine trees and men’s cologne. He did not mind. It smelled safe. Nice. Comfortable. It smelled real. Like he was actually here, in this car, with James-

Oh crap. 

Realizing it was James who he was lying against, Steve lifted his head up a little, trying to form a coherent sentence, but all he could manage were soft, sleepy sounds that had James’ blurry face soften in endearment. It was not a bad look on him at all, and Steve could not help but smile back, the corners of his lips tugging up. A hand was raised, not his own, and it stroked away the strands of honey-blond hair that would often flop into Steve’s eyes. Another sleepy noise slipped passed his lips. 

"Shh," James shushed, his voice low and soft, his fingers running down the side of Steve’s face, "Just go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll wake you up when we’re there."

For a moment more, Steve still fought sleep, but soon after he failed to see the point of it and he surrendered, letting himself lean into James’ embrace, curling up against that warm, firm body and allowing his mind to take him away. The hand was still on his head, now treading gently through his locks, soothingly, scratching lightly at his scalp. That felt nice. He mumbled, contently, trying to burrow himself further against James’ side, seeking that warmth and soothing touch. 

Lips brushed his hair, though he could have just dreamed that. 

**X**

When they arrived, still some distance away from the warehouse, James gently shook Steve as to wake him. It took a moment for Steve to wake up fully; a full belly and a warm embrace did that to him, before he stepped out of the car after James. 

It should have been a short goodbye, where they would simply say the words and James would leave, but Steve was not ready to let go just yet. He wished to draw the moment out a little longer, so he could take it with him. Somewhere he was afraid that he would mess it up again, like he kept messing it up in the restaurant with his badly thought-out lies and his stumbling words. And the man and the knife of course. 

No, James was about to leave, and he had to stop it. Prevent it. Hold on to him a little longer because he was not done yet. This was not over yet, he still had time, he needed the time. More time. Now. 

"Could I..." Steve said, trailing off into silence. He was afraid he was too straightforward, too needy, to selfish. He was afraid that his appalling behavior would scare James away, but he _had_ to ask. He _had_ to know. Before he could stop himself the rest of the sentence already left his mouth. "Will I ever see you again?"

Had he not been alone, he would have punched himself so hard he would be seeing stars for the rest of the night. _Stupid_. His mind was rapidly working to come up with some goofy, dumb comment on the thing he just blurted out, but he could not think of any. There were some sarcastic remarks flying around in his head, but the last thing he wanted was to insult James, or worse: chase him away. 

While Steve was experiencing mild panic, a state where his mind was evacuating the whole building because his brain was going to self-destruct, James stepped forward, his hand curling around Steve’s arm, gently, merely a point of contact to pull him in a little closer, not to hurt him, or yank him around like a dog on a leash. Steve gave in to the tug, stepping into James’ space a little more easily that he should. The hand released his arm, going for the small lock of hair that hung in front of his face, resting on his forehead, brushing it out of the way with one swift slide of a thumb. 

As James leaned forward, Steve’s pulse raced. Looking into those eyes, Steve saw deep pools of icy blue that could drown him at any moment. James’ lips touched Steve’s forehead. Time stopped. His heart came to a halt, breath caught in his throat. 

As the soft skin of James’ mouth left the upper side of Steve’s face, the exact spot where they had come into contact burned and tingled. A hot blazing fire pulsed through him, and his cheeks painted themselves rose red. James pulled away silently, but their eyes locked, having a private conversation of their own.

It shouldn’t mean that much, but it did. 

"Of course," James whispered then, his knuckles sliding up Steve’s cheek to tuck those unruly strands of honey-blond hair behind his ear, "You didn’t think that, after today, I could ever stay away from you again?"

His stomach was doing flips, and it was about to jump out his throat and run in circles, and Steve did not know how to handle it. Perhaps he did. There was a solution, sort of. 

"Can I..." Steve asks, because he’s not certain, his voice hesitating and slow. He licked his lips, purposely avoiding James’ eyes in case he got it all wrong again. "Can I… hug you?"

Right after he said it, he regretted his words and he wished to take them back. The desire, the _hope_ , it was all still there, but he was not supposed to act on it. He was not supposed to do this, but he wanted to be useful. He wanted to _please_ , so badly. He wanted to be good, for James, so good. It was one of the only things that Steve could offer at the moment, and in his head the offer had sounded as good as any. Though, he supposed, when he said it out loud, it sounded needy and pathetic. 

It was wrong, and James would hate him, for sure. It did not matter James was stepping forward, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close– _wait_. 

The hug was strong, tight, as holding Steve was not enough, but he had to feel every ounce that he was, keeping him close as though he could disappear at any moment. Steve felt awake, even more so than he had before. It was like being held for real– no, he _was_ held for real. Someone was holding him, closely, _hugging_ him. And it felt like that as long as he was right here, in these arms, he was safe. 

"Is this alright?" James asked then, almost hesitantly, "Is it not too tight or-"

"It’s fine," Steve interrupted, feeling the arms around him squeeze a fraction righter right after, and he breathed out slowly, body melting against James’ large, firm body as his own muscles slowly started to lose tension. "It’s perfect."

The sigh that slipped passed his lips, and the one he felt James let go, it was almost a physical release of tension, one that just _let go_ , so that they could just _be_ , and live in that exact moment for a little longer. It was some kind of aura that James emitted, something strong, something _present_ , a wave of comfort that rolled over Steve, lighting up the core in his chest, and he leaned into it, all of it. The arms that wrapped around his frame were warm, like blankets around his being. They were big and strong, almost protective where they held him, as though he was not going to let anything happen to Steve, ever, and that was a nice thought.

"No," James murmured, but before Steve even had the chance to process what had just been said he continued, " _You_ are." 

And what was… Steve did not know what that was. He just knew that he dipped his head to tuck in beneath James’ chin, in the crook of his neck, tilting it just _so_ that he could still breathe properly, and did not squish his nose into the fabric and bare skin. James only pulled him in further, curling over him a little, as though he was a small animal that needed protection. Maybe he was. Maybe he did. All he knew was that James was strong, James was big, James would protect him. 

He could not remember ever feeling like this before, and now that he _did_ , he did not want to lose it again. He did not want to lose the feeling of tension slipping away like water through a drain, the kind that left him empty of all negative feelings, of fear and worry, leaving him floating on a cloud, standing there in silent bliss, nearly buried in James’ chest. 

There was a final squeeze, something gentle, though it did signal the end of it. Steve released, stepping back, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes in an attempt to look calm, like he was actually holding himself together. 

"Thank you," he said, his breath thin, "I– well, it was… I really liked that."

"You did?" Something of relief sounded through his voice, and James nodded a few times. "That’s good. ‘Cuz I liked it too. It was nice."

Shuffling his feet a little, Steve nodded along, not knowing what turn the conversation would take now, and generally unknowing about what to say or do next. He wanted to say something, but he knew no words. He wanted to lean back forward again, but that would be weird. He wanted to get hugged once more, taken into that warm, strong embrace, but he knew that would just be needy and uncalled for. 

They had just hugged, no need to do it again. He knew little about people, but he trusted his gut enough to know the subtle things about social interaction. They got a hug. No second one. That part was over. Should he walk away? Leave the conversation? Was this the point that they said goodbye and Steve would just walk back to the building?

Then James cocked his head to the side just a little, looking a mix between content and slightly worried. "Hey, Steve, like I said earlier, I want you to do things you’re comfortable with, right? I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something, for any reason at all."

Steve quickly shook his head at that, feeling a pang of pride in his chest, for himself, and for James, because the man actually seemed to care about what Steve had told him. He cared about what he had seen Steve do, how Steve reacted, and he took that into account. It was a little difficult as well, though, because Steve had never quite learned how to handle these things. Intimacy. Normal conversations. 

"I didn’t," Steve answered honestly, looking away a little. Telling the sky and road was always easier than telling a person themselves. The checking in, the carefulness with which James seemed to handle him. It was… new. Strange. "I wanted it. You don’t have to worry like that."

_Wrong addition._

From the corner of his eye, Steve saw it clearly. It was not the ground he was staring at anymore, or the horizon, but rather the man next to him. James seemed to think the words through, squinting his eyes just slightly as he did, and Steve swallowed. Taking a soft breath, James tried to catch his eyes as he asked, "Like what?"

"You know." Steve offered a vague shrug of his shoulders, and a half-hearted wave of his hand. "I got spooked this morning, but that doesn’t mean I’m always scared. You don’t have to be worried. It just… happened. It doesn’t normally happen like that. You’re alright. You’re nice. I know I can trust you. It just..." he sighed. "It’s been a long day, and..." 

He took a moment, thinking his words through like he always did. He did not want to let the pause take too long, as that would make James suspicious, so he took a deep breath. "You came out of nowhere, but even though you have a reputation, I just… I feel like I can trust you. You’re great." There was a small breath on Steve’s lips, almost an unbelieving scoff at himself. "You’re _really_ great."

That wasn’t right either.

"I wouldn’t immediately call myself ‘really great’ for trying to understand where your boundaries are, so I won’t overstep them," James answered, his voice a little slow, clear, almost confused, "And today… what I showed you was normal human decency. At least, I thought it was."

Both of them seemed confused, and all Steve wanted at that moment was to go back to the hug. He wanted to restart the day since he entered the city, leaving the trunk of the car, and reliving those every moments. The moments that meant more to him than James would ever understand. The bar for Steve lay about as low as it could get. Not getting hit, screamed at or cussed out was of big significance to him, but he could understand that not everyone put the bar quite that low. 

Shrugging again, not liking the turn the conversation had taken, Steve tried to patch things back together, to fix it a little so they would both leave with a good feeling in their chest, instead of a painful hollowness. "Of course, but look. I just… I have..." _No friends, no family, no one_. "I don’t get around with people a lot. So to me, you’re… you know."

His heart was pounding away in his chest, and he could not make it slow down. Nothing was wrong, he was just being honest. James liked honesty, right? The man seemed confused still, not a good sign. "I don’t think I do," James said, "Could you explain it to me?"

Silence. 

Steve did not even dare to rub at his nose to get rid of the itch, he just stared at the horizon colored dark in the night, watching a single bird fly passed, and he listened to the few sounds that were there. Crickets. Quite fitting, he supposed. He was hot, somehow, even though it was late in the evening. 

Then, a vibrating hum spun up to their ears. A phone. A message. James’ had just gotten a text, or something alike. Steve looked at the pocket, where it was now quiet. He did not look back up at the owner, he merely stated. "Don’t you have to get that?"

"Not really," James answered simply, "I’d rather hear your explanation."

 _I don’t have one_. Steve swallowed, heavily, trying to push down the cotton and slime that clogged up his throat. He almost wanted to cry, his heart crashing by what had just happened, and he wanted it to be alright again. He wanted to go back to a few minutes ago, and just keep his stupid mouth shut this time. "I don’t have one."

There was confusion, a lot of it, on both sides, but only Steve seemed actually affected by it. Presumably because it was all his fault. He messed up, _again_ , and everything was ruined. He clasped his hands together, kneading his fingers harder than he was supposed to, and it almost hurt. James must have noticed, because his tone and body language suggested he was backpaddling. Steve would know; he had done it himself many times.

"Hey, babydoll, it’s okay," James said, taking a small step closer, his voice so low and soft, and Steve thought his heart had just both grown three sizes and jumped out of his chest at the term of endearment that James had opted to use. _Babydoll_. "I didn’t mean to cage you like that, I’m sorry. I do worry much, but it seems like you’re giving me a lot to worry about. I want you to be alright, okay? Just look at me."

 _Look at me_. Steve did not.

Fingers ghosted his cheek, the back of them running down the soft skin so gently, until they settled beneath his ear, cupping his cheek as his thumb swept up and down, grazing the corner of Steve’s mouth, barely touching his bottom lip, though it seemed compelled to, only just holding back. Steve felt tempted to close his eyes and lean into it. So tempted. 

Though he kept his eyes open, he did lean into it. The warmth, the solidness of it all. Like an anchor it kept him to the ground, leveling him, yet at the same time it took him higher than any plane could. He looked up. 

"I don’t want you to be afraid of me," James spoke, that soft look coming back to his eyes, "I don’t want you to feel as if you have to walk on your toes all the time, or keep your distance out of fear of me doing something you’re not comfortable with. I want you to feel like you can talk to me, alright? A lot of things seemed to be bothering you today, and I wanted you to know that if you ever want to talk about it, you can talk about it with me."

 _Please don’t leave me here. Take me with you, that’s all I want_. Steve did not know what to say, but that was alright because James did not seem to be waiting for an answer. He did not want to answer, to say anything, he just wanted to feel safe right now and know that he would still be safe tomorrow. He wanted to make James happy so that maybe, just _maybe_ , James would consider making him happy too. 

James pulled his hand back a little, only to run the rough bases of his fingers along the side of Steve’s face again, almost lovingly, and he brushed a strand of hair away. Steve lifted his own hand, grabbing James’, holding it tightly. 

"Okay," he said, just for the sake of saying something, "I will."

Like a ray of sunshine through the dark, James smiled at him, and Steve forgot how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear GOD I LOVED writing that little car scene. Sleepy Steve and gentle Bucky just do things to me. 
> 
> I’m honestly just luring y’all into my honey trap of safety, but don’t forget that James drives away after this and Steve still has to go back to the warehouse, without having told Bucky anything. Not to mention Steve was gone for most of the day, people (Rumlow cough cough) have noticed. 
> 
> You are all already asking for that happy end already but darlings, the angst and hurt hasn’t even started yet!


	6. Till Human Voices Wake Us, and We Drown

When the yelling started, he froze.

It was not a conscious reaction, not something he could control. It was a piece of his childhood that had never quite grown out of when he got older. It had something to do with his father, though he remembered little. No matter how many years went by, how many birthdays he lived through, it would never quite leave him, and he was stuck with it. 

Most of the time it was dormant, and he did not even notice it was there. It did not obstruct his daily activities, so most of the time he denied it even existed. 

It was not something he would be able to explain to others, or even to himself. It was a kind of reaction that had him wonder if it was even real, or if it was just his mind making up stuff. Stress did odd things to your mind and body, it could make you imagine things that had not actually happened. It could make you doubt yourself, doubt the world, doubt everything.

Though it had happened more often, it was hard to recall the feeling of freezing, and often he would feel stupid the day after, scoff at himself for having such weak reaction. Why did he freeze? Why, after all this time, would he still freeze when confronted with one of those angry bastards? He wrote it off to the stress of the situation, and told himself that he did not freeze. It was merely a memory of stress, not a truth.

Only every time the yelling started, he still froze.

"Where the fuck were you?" Rumlow asked, as he half-sat on the kitchen counter, his hands crossed before his chest. He tried to appear calm, but Steve could hear his voice tremble with anger, and his body seemed to shake in fury. It was bad. 

He tried to go in against it, the freezing, but it was so difficult. 

On other days when the yelling came, it was usually a night already filled with tension and strain. It would start around dinner, and he would be confronted with Rumlow, who was then agitated about something. Probably his coworkers, they managed to get him worked up quite well, or his bosses that never did anything right on any given day. That’s how it usually started.

Right now, tonight, Steve could easily distinguish the scent of alcohol between the sweat and deodorant. Something he had picked up in his childhood as well. 

Whenever Rumlow was in a bad mood, Steve tried to be as cheerfully as possible, telling Rumlow about the most average, general things every. Things that he may have said quite some time before, steering the topics just _so_ that Rumlow was talking most of the time, making him feel as though _he_ was in the center. 

With a few subtle hints and changes of subject, he got Rumlow to talk about his usual passion for boxing and some of this friends, telling the story of the box match that he had told maybe a hundred times before, but Steve still listened with unwavering attention, acting as though he was in awe every single time and it was the most interesting thing he had ever heard.

Rumlow was a prick, but he was a _predictable_ prick. 

Right now, Steve felt like no amount of feigned interest would make the man calm down. 

"Outside," he answered, doing his best to stay calm himself, in control, "Walking. To clear my head. I wasn’t feeling well."

"Really?" Rumlow scoffed, loudly, "For more than ten fucking _hours?_ I don’t think so. Where the fuck were you?"

The harshness of his voice made Steve flinch, and his stomach turned itself into a knot at the sight of the still half-full bottle of strong alcohol that stood on the counter, in reach of Rumlow. Whiskey. Normally, when there was alcohol, Steve would secretly pour some through the sink as quietly as he could. Not too much, because Rumlow would notice, but enough for one time. 

He always felt tempted to pour some water into the bottle as well, but Rumlow would taste watered-down whiskey immediately, and Steve would be screwed right away. He had tried that once. Never again. 

"I– I was…"

"Well?" Rumlow asked, putting pressure to the heavy rock that lay on Steve’s chest, forcing the air out of his lungs, "Answer me!"

Jerking back in reflex, Steve blurted out, "I went to the city."

Wrong answer. Wrong sentence. Wrong words. Wrong _everything_. Steve wanted to hit himself, pull out his hair, take it back. Shit, shit, shit. He felt every muscle tense and his hands began to open and close with each quickening breath. All the muscles in his body tensed, and he was frantically searching for words to undo what he just said. "I didn’t talk to anyone," he said quickly, hoping to save whatever he could, "I didn’t do anything."

Rumlow shifted his weight on his other leg, his eyebrows lowering. "You did _what_?"

Nausea pushed up the back of Steve’s throat, and he squeezed one of his hands between the fingers of his other, cutting off the blood supply. "I didn’t go far, I was just… looking around. Really. I didn’t talk to anyone, sir, I just walked."

"You just ‘walked’?" Rumlow’s voice was turning into something low, spatting out words as though they were venom in his mouth. "You just ‘walked’ in the city?"

"I’m sorry–"

"You’re always sorry, aren’t you? You’re sorry for going in against my orders, you’re sorry for letting that trap of yours run all day bitching everybody off, you’re sorry for trying to ruin this whole operation. You’re always sorry, and I don’t buy it!"

"Without me, there wouldn’t even be an operation!" Steve argued, breath quickening and heart pounding. 

"Without you, we may have been a lot better off!"

To that, Steve had no answer. His eyes burned, stung, and he swallowed back tears that threatened to spill, for it had all gone wrong so quickly. A silence fell between them, with Steve sucking in tiny breaths of air and trying to keep himself from crying, trying to come up with something to say that would not escalate the situation any further, but his mind was blank. He was not sad. He was not pathetic, and whether or not these men wanted to admit it, he was valuable. He just had to make it through the evening. 

When Rumlow was drunk, there was no reasoning with him. It was all black or white, good or bad, and no matter what Steve did he never did the right thing. Either he did not try hard enough, or he said the wrong things, or he was only doing it to throw sand in Rumlow’s eyes. It was true, of course, he often only said what Rumlow wanted to hear, but at least he was trying. He was trying really hard to keep the peace most of the time. 

He tried to think back of the good times with James just barely a few minutes ago, but it blurred through his panicked mind. He wanted it to stop, to come to a halt. He wanted to talk it out with Rumlow like the grownups they were. They could talk it out, right? Rumlow may be drunk, but perhaps Steve could convince him to go to bed and they could talk about it in the morning, when he was sober. He was always more reasonable when he was sober. Still creepy and aggressive, but less than when he was drunk. 

"I just went to the city to walk, okay?" Steve said, holding up a placating hand, "I was curious, and I hadn’t been out in fourteen years. _Fourteen years_ , sir, _please_ , I just couldn’t take it anymore!"

Taking a few more heaving breath, Rumlow seemed to deflate. It worked. Steve couldn’t believe his eyes. It worked! He masked his relief, keeping the look of sadness and fear and pleading on his face, for he knew that would make him seem smaller, vulnerable, submissive, and that was exactly what these power-hungry bastards liked to see. The fearful pup, keeping its head down, showing its belly and exposing its throat.

"Alright," Rumlow said, crossing his arms before his chest. He was not cooled down, not by far, but it was a start. The man shrugged, just slightly. "Alright, I get it. You felt cooped up in here, we had just gotten an argument, and you decided to be a spiteful brat and leave for the city, that it?"

Steve nodded quickly, agreeing to Rumlow’s words just for the sake of giving him the high ground. "Yes, it was– I just wanted to leave. Be alone."

"How did you get to the city? Stole a car?"

"No I– uhm, I hid in the trunk of one. Got a ride, in the car, in the trunk, and I ended up in the city like that, in the car, but they didn’t know I was in there. I didn’t even really know who the two men were, really, didn’t really see their faces, basically, and uhm… Then I just walked around. I– uhm, I watched the shops." While he talked, Steve made a bit of a vague gesture with his hands, and Rumlow was looking at him as though he thought Steve had fallen on his head one too many times. 

"I– uh, sat on a… a uh, bench, watched the people," Steve said, nodding a few times fast, "Did you know that pants with holes in the knees are fashionable now? I thought it was odd, because basically you’re paying more for less, because there’s less fabric, because of the holes, so you pay for something that isn’t there, and I just thought-"

"Oh god, shut up!" Rumlow snapped, hand coming up to rub his head, "I don’t care! I don’t care about all of that! Just-" the man sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought. "Who did you talk to?"

"No one," Steve said immediately, "I promise you, sir, I didn’t tell anyone anything." Technically, he wasn’t lying. He had not told James a single thing, while he so clearly should have. If he had, he wouldn’t be in trouble like he was now. This could work, he could really make this work. "I know I’m not supposed to, this place has to be kept on the downlow, that’s best for everyone, so I didn’t say anything about us, about this, really."

Somehow, miraculously, Rumlow seemed to buy it. The man grabbed his glass from the counter, pouring some more Whiskey from the bottle before taking a large sip, and then he gestured at Steve with the glass. "You better not be lyin’ to me," he said, a growl to his voice, "I won’t be happy if you do."

Steve quickly shook his head. "No sir, I’m not lying. I didn’t tell anyone about this."

A few nods, and Rumlow seemed to think it through, giving a short tilt of his head as he took another sip of Whiskey. Slowly, the heavy stone was lifted off Steve’s chest, and he felt like he could somewhat breathe again. They were moving in the right direction, this was good. He could do this. He could fix this. He could actually convince Rumlow everything was fine and there was nothing to be angry about. 

"By the way," Rumlow said then, putting down the glass with a sharp _clink_ as he looked up sharply at Steve, "Have you seen my wallet?"

 _Oh no_. Steve bit his lip. "I– uh..."

_Knock-knock_

A sharp knock on the wooden door of the kitchen interrupted the two, and both their heads turned to look. Rumlow’s eyes flickered from the door to Steve, and then back to the door before he regained his posture and said brusquely, "What?"

The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He seemed positively bored to be here, his expression nothing but sheer disinterest, but that was not what called Steve’s attention. It was his coat and his hat that did. A long coat, a little dirty, somewhat old, and a hat that obscured most of his face did he tilt it down. 

_No_.

It was the man from the restaurant.

Steve froze on the spot, jaw slackening as he stared in absolute horror how the man he had threatened in the city strolled in so calmly, not looking at him at all, but rather at Rumlow. Something was wrong. Very, _very_ wrong. What was that man doing here? Why was he here? What was going on?

While Steve panicked, Rumlow merely stood up straight from his position against the counter, nodding his head towards the new man. "Dave, good to see you." Rumlow’s eyes flickered towards Steve again, and then back at the man. "What did you find out?"

"You were right," the man, apparently named _Dave,_ said, crossing his arms before his chest. "He used your debit card. I found your wallet in his backpack. The shoes match the purchase." 

It was like his whole world came crashing down around him. All sounds, smells, tastes, colors, it all faded to a distorted blur, and he thought he would faint right there on the spot. The man from the restaurant. He was selling Steve out. He was from the warehouse after all. He had _watched_ Steve dining with _James Barnes_. 

Steve swallowed, thickly, hands trembling uncontrollably as he realized what this meant for him. He felt sick. He was going to throw up. 

"I found him in a restaurant," Dave continued, and Steve wished the man would die on the spot, "Wasn’t sure if it was really him, though. Watched him for a while, and then followed him to the bathroom, had to leave after that because he threatened me with a knife."

Steve’s eyes watered, his hands clenching and unclenching to fists nervously as to stop them from shaking, but it had little use. 

"Was there someone with him?" Rumlow asked, his voice ice cold. 

_Don’t tell him, please don’t tell him, don’t tell him, please don’t tell him_. Steve looked at the man almost pleadingly, but the man was not looking back at him, and saw nothing. He was staring at Rumlow only, the good little soldier, reporting back to his boss and screwing up another’s life. Steve was shaking at this point. _Please don’t tell him_. 

"He was," the man told Rumlow, and Steve almost cried, "A guy, I didn’t see his face, so I don’t know who it was."

"’A guy’?" Rumlow’s head snapped towards Steve, dark eyes drilling a hole in Steve’s own, "Care to explain?"

Steve gasped quietly at the sudden shout at him, eyes widening in fear, and his hands came up to cover his mouth, but it was too late. Nothing would take back what had just happened. His mind worked rapidly to come up with and answer, his lips moved silently, and he lowered his hands. "I didn’t– he was–"

"Who the fuck is he talking about?!" Rumlow screamed, and Steve felt his heart plummet, "Who were you in the city with?!"

_Don’t tell him, don’t tell him, don’t tell him, don’t tell him, don’t tell him, don’t tell him, don’t tell him, Steve goddamn Rogers for the love of everything that’s good and pure in this world, do not tell him!_

Rumlow roared at him, slamming his hand onto the kitchen counter so loudly it made Steve flinch again, "ANSWER ME!"

Steve stifled a whimper. "James Barnes," he said quietly.

"Barnes?" Rumlow asked, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared under his hairline, and even the man Dave seemed taken aback. "James Barnes? You were in the city with the head of the Sevastyanov family?!"

"I’m gonna go now," Dave said, pointing at the door. 

Though Steve wished the guy would crash and burn, he did wish he would stay. A third party meant Rumlow would control himself a little more, but Dave turned and left, and Steve was now alone with a guy with terrifying anger issues. He should probably get some help for that; not that Rumlow would ever admit nor accept it. 

"The head of the– God! Do you have _any_ idea how– do you even realize-! You absolute son of a bitch, _fuck!_ "

Rumlow was beyond reason. Before Steve realized what had happened, two plates and a glass lay shattered on the floor, but even though the sound was an attack to both his ears, Steve was unmoving. 

Being screamed at never ended well; after the words and tension and threats, he would slowly sink into a hole where he felt nothing at all. He just wanted it to be over, to be the next day where they would all ignore what happened the day before and move on He wanted to get to it and then get it over with. He had no interest in listening to lectures and saliva-coated words spat in his face.

He knew he screw up, badly. He was not supposed to go out there and he knew it, but he did it anyway. 

"You ruined _everything_!" Rumlow roared, yanking another glass from the counter to hurl it to the wall behind Steve. He flinched, again, forcing his body to keep still. 

Before Steve could say anything else, Rumlow stormed off out of the kitchen, slamming the door closed behind him with such force the ground shook, and Steve quickly rubbed his eyes to get rid of the tears that pooled in the corners. Rumlow _hated_ it when he cried. Said he acted like a baby for no reason, and that was not how a real man behaved. 

Steve could be a real man, he could be strong. He usually _was_ strong, but when people started yelling and cursing he just got so scared. He wanted it to be alright, for it to be fixed, but they just sometimes got so angry because Steve did the wrong things.

Perhaps Rumlow went to bed, perhaps he was too tired to strike up another argument over something petty and he would just give Steve the cold shoulder until tomorrow evening, where they would both act as though nothing had happened. Those were the best days, where they acted as though everything was fine, as though Rumlow had never gotten angry, so they would never have to deal with it. 

Of course, Steve knew they should talk about it, because they were adults and should create a professional workspace here, but when Rumlow _was_ angry there was no reasoning with him, and when Rumlow _wasn’t_ angry, Steve simply did not want to risk the good mood being turned around into something furious, aimed all at him, so that _he_ would catch the brunt of it again.

A few moments later, when Steve had carefully, quietly, grabbed the broom from where it rested against the wall, sweeping the shards to the corner of the kitchen, Rumlow came back into the room with something in his hand. Steve swallowed, entire body going rigid at the sight, and new tears blurred his vision. Rumlow was holding a leather belt, folded in his hand. He looked _pissed_.

"Rumlow…" Steve tried, but he was cut off.

"You’ve been bitching me off for _days_ now, and I’ve _had_ it," Rumlow snapped back, "We give you everything you need: food, a house, a bed, and then you dare put up an attitude like that, sneaking off to the goddamn fucking city without telling anyone, and you think you can just get away with it like that? You ungrateful bastard!"

The belt sat threateningly in the palm of Rumlow’s hand, and Steve’s heart raced in his chest. This was not good, _this was not good_. Rumlow had done it once before, so straightforward. Garrett had told him that Steve was not to be hurt by the staff, ever, because he had to stay in pristine conditions for the ring. He healed fast, something he still did not understand, but bruises and contusions healed themselves in a day or so, depending on how severe they were. Rumlow took advantage of that. 

Rumlow would often give him a few extra kicks and punches when the man suggested to go for a round as a training exercise, to out his frustrations of Steve because they both knew Steve would heal anyway. He barely ever just stepped forward like this to beat Steve, though. He wasn’t supposed to do that, and he knew it. 

That did not seem to be stopping him now, not with his pose and the hatred in his eyes. Steve backed away, jaw clenching, feeling himself taking a defensive stance. It was going to hurt, he knew that already. 

"I don’t want to hurt you, but you leave me no choice," Rumlow said, "This is for your own good."

He could fight. All the many fights he has had in the ring, the training, he could defend himself. He could fight Rumlow. He was faster, stronger. Brock was no beanstalk or skinny guy by any means, but Steve was not either. And Steve had gotten training that Rumlow had not. He should stand up for himself, he should not let this happen to him! He had power here, he could still be in control. He didn’t have to let Rumlow do this to him.

With a steady voice, Steve said, "Rumlow, you’re drunk. Stop it."

That rubbed Rumlow in all the wrong ways, and left Steve wishing he had just shut his fucking mouth. "Don’t fucking talk to me like that."

"You’re right, sir," Steve said, holding up his hands a little, to protect himself as Rumlow came closer, "I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please, can we talk it out? Rumlow please, _please don’t hurt me_."

He should stop this. 

Why wasn’t he stopping this?

It wasn’t like he couldn’t defend himself against bullies, but he knew it lay more complicated than that. Like trying to unravel a heap of thin yarn that had twisted and tied itself into a hundred knots. He could defend himself against assholes and bullies, and he could fight those who attacked him or tried to hurt him. 

The problem here lied differently. He lived here, and was entirely dependent on them, whether he wanted to or not. These people had cared for him since he was just twelve years old, and that sat engraved in his mind. 

This was what he had grown up with, leaving him open and vulnerable. It was the emotional dependence on someone who was supposed to care for you, who would hurt you once in a while and leave you broken before they would make it up and all was fine. This was all his fault.

Before Steve could react properly, Rumlow had stalked forward and planted his first in his stomach, just below his diaphragm. It forced all the air out of his lungs, pain shooting through him like a zap of electricity, he gagged as his stomach heaved, and tears sprung to his eyes. He doubled over and keened in pain, clutching his stomach, unable to defend himself before the first strike of the belt collided with his upper arm. 

Feeling the pain burn through his nerves, he cried out in pain, a little too late to keep it back because he knew Rumlow hated it when he screamed. The force of the blow, together with the next one on his back, forced him to his knees. He was not going to scream, he did not want to give them the satisfaction.

Part of him wanted to get up and fight back. He had been beaten before so many times in the ring, he has had lashes with the belt on his arms, legs and back before, it was nothing new. Garrett had trained him for years, he could fight this. He could stand up for himself and put an end to this. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt enough to render him helpless. He was never completely helpless. He had his fists, his feet and even his teeth.

"Rumlow!" Steve cried out, trying to keep himself back, "Stop it!"

"Shut up!" Rumlow shouted back, planting his fist against Steve’s jaw, sending a spike of agonizing dizziness through his head. The world spun around and around, faster than when he spun in circles himself, and nausea pushed up his throat faster than a racecar. He saw nothing for a moment, then white spots danced in his eyes. There was no time to blink them away, before the next hit landed. 

He could do so much, but as he thought of all the ways that he could stop this, stop the pain, stop the abuse, he let it happen to him anyway as he backed away to the wall, curling up as the hits kept coming and he did his best not to throw up. He could not move, his body was too heavy and he was frozen. His arms and head weight a ton, his body flooded with the scare of adrenaline, but he could not get away. The only thing he could do was let out noises of pain and endure the white-hot lashes. The strikes hit him hard, like a mean whip.

As he went completely rigid, he bit his tongue instead of letting it form words; he tasted blood. He held in any acknowledgment of the pain, for it would anger Rumlow more. Rumlow hit him again. Steve screamed through his teeth, shaking his whole body in an attempt to move away, but it was futile. Rumlow just hit him more, laying into his body hard.

He remembered his first slap, around two or three years or so ago. It was the surprise, Steve supposed. He had not expected to be hit, let alone so hard. He had not expected Rumlow to put his weight and strength behind it, but he did, and it was enough to stun. Though his hand had been empty, it was like being hit with a hunk of meat nonetheless, and afterward he would endure the words of hatred, all spilling from a man who had promised Garrett to look out for Steve. 

That promise was nowhere to be found now. Rumlow squeezed the belt and screamed at him, then he hit him even harder, forcing him down to the floor... his back stinging from the lashes. Rumlow beat him in a violent way and Steve could do nothing but bite back tears, not even asking for it to stop knowing that it would make him more angry. Between the strikes he felt a shoe forcing into his stomach, and he gasped for breath, trying to get away but it was all futile.

"Please, _stop_ ," Steve cried, holding out a hand that was kicked away, "Please stop, _I’m sorry!_ Please stop. _Stop!"_

A pulse of pain shot through his shoulder, right from the tip of the bone up to his head, like a dull throb that settled in every nerve. The cruel hits kept falling, again and once more, against the same few places on his back and side, and it felt as though his skin broke at some places, as though hot blood flowed down his sides like small rivers. With each strike, it seemed to hurt even more, a pain that started as mean and stinging at first, but changed into white-hot fury spiking through his side, his arms, his back. 

Even when he heard the sounds of pain, when he saw the skin color red, Rumlow kept lashing out, angry to no end, taking it all out on the defenseless young man before him. For a moment Steve was afraid it would never end.

"Do you think I like hurting you?" Rumlow asked then, spitting out the words as though they were disgusting in his mouth, delivering another blow after each pause, "Do you think I enjoy this? I’m doing it so you will be a better person, Steve. So you’ll listen to me, and do what I fucking tell you to do!"

Tears dripped down his cheeks, and he pleaded Rumlow to stop, but the man only stopped when he wanted to, and that was not yet. The fabric of his clothes offered little protection, but Steve was grateful for any. 

When the hits did finally stop, Steve was afraid to move. Afraid to even do as much as look up at the other as his entire body throbbed and burned. He was shaking all over, eyes wide, body refusing to listen to any of his commands as it stayed taut and rigid, expecting more pain to land soon, and he could not make himself relax. Rumlow threw the belt on the floor, the loud _thump_ of the leather strap making Steve flinch.

"Look at me!" Rumlow snapped, and Steve turned his head, looking at his handler with wide, fearful eyes, the knowledge that it was over was not enough to make him less afraid. "Let me make one thing clear: you’re living under MY roof, and you will do what I say if you don’t want me to color that face of yours black and blue. You hear me!"

Steve nodded, his voice gone, all his will to fight gone. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted Rumlow to say he was done and to walk away. He wanted the belt out of his vision, he wanted it away. He wanted everything away. 

"Now, get to your room, and _stay there!_ I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the night, do you understand?"

The room. Please not the room. He hated his room. It was dark and stuffy and cold and hot, and he _hated_ it there. Rumlow would turn off the lights and it would be even horrible, almost worse than the beatings. It would be so quiet, with scraping sounds coming out of nowhere, eyes wide and unseeing, rats scuttering behind the walls, monsters lurking from the corners. 

He hated the room. Please not the room. He tried to beg, to plead. _Please not the room, please don’t put me there, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

Rumlow told him to stop being so sad and pathetic and just get in there. No matter his pain, no matter he could barely pick himself off the ground, no matter how he pleaded to just stay somewhere else in the apartment, Rumlow still pushed him forward towards the most horrible place of the whole building he lived in.

How exactly he managed to get to his room, Steve did not know. Something with limping, whimpering, casting Rumlow a pathetic look but the man was not even interested in him anymore, only in making him disappear for the rest of the night. The door opened in front of him, the lights off. Rumlow yanked his arm back as to force Steve to look at him.

"When I get back, I expect you to tell me _everything_ , get it? You’ll tell me exactly where you went, what you did, and whom you talked to. If you don’t..." Rumlow kept silent, but Steve did not need any words to understand what would happened if he didn’t. 

Rumlow shoved him inside, and he flinched once more when the sudden sound of a door slamming closed and locking up spun towards his ears from behind, like the sounds were thrown back into his face. He turned around, knowing that he was not able to leave anymore. He would be stuck for as long as Rumlow deemed necessary, and that was often the entire night. Perhaps even more than the night.

The room they called _his_ _room_ , was a room with one door, and no windows. It was much like an over-glorified broom closet, only with a little more space to move. It was much like a prison cell, then. There was no light, no chair, only a thin mattress and his blanket. He was stuck in here, in the dark, until Rumlow thought it had been long enough and he was let out. Steve knew he would have to get comfortable on the stone-like mattress, while his body throbbed and burned and spiked with pain. 

He kept himself up, a little longer, having no sight so he tried to move the individual parts of his bodies as to assess how much damage had been done, and where. His legs were mostly fine, which brought relief. It seemed his left shoulder, and his left hip had taken the brunt of the beating. He could feel the heat trail up from his thigh to his shoulder, all the way up the skin between. It would be sore tomorrow, painful, dull. 

As he lowered himself to the slab of fabric, he looked at the thin stripe of light coming from beneath the door, knowing it would soon turn off as well, and then it would truly be dark. He lay there on the floor, letting out soft puffs of breath mingled with groans and whimpers, trying to get as comfortable as he could. It was not just pain that sent his mind on a spin though, but also fear for what had happened and fear of not knowing what would happen next. Fear for more pain. Fear that things would not work themselves out and he may never be alright, or get out of here. 

He had his chance. James had been _right there_ , but he didn’t take it. He didn’t take the fucking chance. 

It was all his fault. 

Nothing came for free, he had learned that lesson many times now. Everything Rumlow or Garrett had ever given to him was leverage, a debt he had to pay one way or another. The gifts he received would often be thrown back into his face and he was called greedy and selfish. The things Rumlow and Garrett did for him weight heavier than anything Steve did for him, even if it was merely an act of human decency. 

Every conversation they had was filled with a certain tension and carefulness on Steve’s side, working so hard to say the right things. It was a competition that Rumlow should never lose, for he was a sore loser and even the smallest of things could drive him to anger.

Rumlow always claimed to have earned respect, simply for existing, while Steve had to work to earn even the littlest scraps of it. All that Steve gave was taken as though it was his right, yet everything Rumlow did deserved a medal. To ask to be understood was too much, kindness was nearly impossible, and it was disgusting. 

After the tantrums, Steve would have to work hard to earn back the decency, playing this game as though he deserved every single bad thing that happened to him, and Rumlow was his savior for trying to help him in a cruel world. He would make Steve beg for simple acceptance, breaking down his self-esteem in all the worst ways possible. Being in Rumlow’s vicinity was hard, and even doing as much as laughing at the wrong time would get him riled up. It was terrifying. It was enraging. Perhaps it angered him more than it frightened him, but he had long learned to never show it. 

Somewhere tomorrow, Rumlow would let him out and they would talk. Steve would play along and act as though he had deserved it. He would act as though the pain was not that bad, as though the strikes were a just well-deserved punishment. Then they would never talk about it until the next fit, and Steve would be left crying and scared in the dark little room that smelled of fear and death. He knew the night would last forever, and it would be torture until the morning came. 

He had no idea what to say, and that scared him. He had no idea what to tell Rumlow tomorrow, which would make the man all the more angier. There was no way he could tell Rumlow what really happened, for the truth would be worse than any lie. Having lunch with James Barnes. Talking with James Barnes. _Falling asleep against James Barnes on the way back to the warehouse_. 

Slowly, he tried to get back up as to move some more, massage his muscles and tend to his wounds, but he quickly realized how futile it was when he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Sharp pain lanced through his head, and colorful spots flashed in front of his eyes, every movement caused some muscle or bone to ache.

He was exhausted. He was in pain. It throbbed in his guts, deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt like someone had their hand in there and was squeezing his organs first gently and then as hard as they could. Searing fiery bursts pulsated around the wounds on Steve’s back and sides, intensifying with each movement, jarring and brutal. With each movement the pain amplified, the bloody muscles quivered, his consciousness ebbed. Black mists swirled at the edges of his mind, trying to draw him into sweet oblivion. He fought sleep, did not want it, but he was losing fast. 

He would heal soon, and he would get his revenge. James was out there, wanting to see him again, he said that, and Steve wanted it to be true so badly that he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. 

It did not take long before his eyes closed and he sunk into a dreamless sleep.

**X**

That sleep did not last nearly as long as he hoped it would, as he was woken up by a door opening and closing. He saw the blurry outlines of combat boots appear in his vision, they were vague shades of black. Steve trembled. Had Rumlow decided he wanted to come back and hurt Steve more?

There was a soft sigh, and a minute or so later something cold press against the wounds on his side. When it pressed harder the pain intensified, cutting through the numbness quite painfully, and Steve let out a groan, curling into himself. There was a hand on his arm, "It’s okay, try not to move. I’m putting some alcohol on the wounds."

Steve did not answer, trying to put the voice to a face. He knew the voice very well, so it did not take him long to realize that it was, in fact, John Garrett, who was sitting next to him in the room. 

Breathing hurt enough by itself, so Steve felt no need to talk, knowing that talking would only hurt more. And he just plainly did not have the energy for it. He was burned up, exhausted. He barely got any time to recover, to pull himself back together like he always did. He was caught in the stupor still, and he knew he would snap out of it soon enough. He always did. He would get back to his feet, and things would go back to the way they were. Right?

"Oh _goddammit_ ," the voice said then, Garrett’s voice, sounding clearly annoyed at something, probably Steve. "Rumlow!" Or not. 

Garrett, who knelt next to Steve, trailing his fingers across the area where Rumlow had hit him the hardest. The meat of his stomach and hip, the area clothes would cover, so that the welts and bruises would go unseen. Steve winced. Garrett ignored it, mostly, pulling up Steve’s shirt a little more as to look at the rest of the contusions. He was scowling, visibly angry.

"Rumlow! Get over here!"

Steve tried laying as silently as he possibly could, trying not to move an inch as Rumlow stomped into the room. Something inside him wished that the man would not notice him if he just lay still enough. Which, of course, would never happen. He was the main attraction of this shit show.

"What?" Rumlow said brusque.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Rumlow looked shortly at Steve, gaze gliding across the abused skin before snapping back up to Garrett. A careless shrug lifted his shoulders shortly, as though this was some kind of joke to him. Given his attitude, it probably was. A joke. Something unimportant. "Is that all? He’s like… biologically enhanced, right? What’s the big deal? He’ll be healed in a few days anyway."

"That’s not the point!" Garrett snapped right back, "Can’t you control yourself even once?"

"You know what he did! He deserved it!"

Steve cowered slightly at their harsh words. They were so loud, drumming against his sensitive ears. They were shouting about him, because of him. He did not like that. Not at all. He did not know why Garrett was here, what was going on, or if he would still have to explain what he had been doing in the city, but he was at least somewhat grateful the attention was not on him. 

"Of course I know what he did," Garrett said, gesturing his arms wildly, "But you’re being insane!"

"No! You’re being too soft! You’re always _babying_ him! If we want him to obey, to listen to our orders, we need to deal with him firmly. Teach him discipline!"

"You call this discipline?"

"Yes," Rumlow snapped, "I do! He’s not going out to cities now, is he? Just do whatever you need to do and stop bothering me!" 

The door closed with a _bang_ that was too loud, and Steve pressed himself against the ground. Garrett sighed next to him, then a short silence fell, only interrupted by the soft clattering and fumbling of a bag and its contents. Garrett was doing something; Steve paid him no mind. He was too tired for that. 

While he lay there, Steve was painfully aware of the welts scattered across his body. They were raw and hurt, mean and burning, but his skin had not broken. There was no blood. The hot bruises had healed partially already, but that did not mean it didn’t hurt when Garrett put some more rubbing alcohol on it. Steve shrunk and trembled. He opened his eyes, looking up only to find the other man looking back at him; their eyes crossed.

"Hiya, kid," Garrett said, offering a smile that held no mirth or friendliness, but at least it was _something_ , "You really messed this one up, didn’t you?"

Steve swallowed, shaking his head softly, "I didn’t tell anyone, Garrett, I swear."

"I know. Otherwise, this place would be crawling with cops already, wouldn’t it?" Garrett chuckled lowly, "Or Ward would have heard something. Anything. He usually hears those things first, the other cops love him."

When he was done rubbing disinfectant alcohol on the red stripes that colored Steve’s abdomen, he ran a hand through Steve’s hair, making the other tremble harder at the touch. "You’re all done, big guy. I’m gonna go get you some water and something to eat."

Steve heard the door open and close once more, but only after counting to twenty in his head did he dare to roll onto his back. That turned out to be a big mistake, because his back was burning and hurting a lot. _God_ , why did it hurt so much? He hoped his healing would hurry up a bit, or he would not be able to go on for much longer. He would manage, for now, but only if the pain would not get much worse.

The opportunity to get out of here was not particularly big, but Steve estimated he would just fit through it if he tried really hard. He was almost sure he would try, if he was ever going to feel normal again, not like his head was stuffed with cotton and there were heavy weights on his legs. Though he doubted he would get far. They would probably shoot him down in a few moment’s notice. Take him down him before he could get anywhere.

Garrett came in again, in his hands a plate and a glass. Steve stayed motionless. Garrett put them on the floor next to the mattress at the end, enough out of reach for Steve not to accidentally knock it over. He turned to Steve to give him a look over. "You’re gonna be fine. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in a few hours."

Steve hoped he wouldn’t. He hoped he would never have to see any HYDRA member tomorrow. If he was lucky, all of this was a dream and tomorrow he would wake up to find himself at home, with his friends and family, safe and sound. With his blurry mom, his awful dad – his dad would not be there – and his distorted friend with the brown hair. He would wake up and laugh at all this, because it had just been a dream. That would probably not be the case, but oh well… one could hope.

The door was locked after Garrett, and Steve sighed to the ceiling. He lifted his head slightly to look at himself. Lifting his shirt up, he took in the damage. Welts scattered on his stomach, chest, hips and side, bruising and a little swollen. It was not nearly as bad as yesterday, and Steve knew that some sleep would bring him a long way. It would heal in time, but it still hurt. Everything hurt. 

He was thirsty, but he could barely move. He was afraid that, if he moved around too much, he would make it worse. There was water over there, but he could not reach it. Could not even turn around. Maybe that was for the better, he didn’t trust anything they gave him here. Not the food, not the water. Not the strange liquids. He would be able to hold on without some water. He was mostly tired anyway. Sleep would help him heal. A few more hours and he would be able to sit up again. And soon, he would be able to get the hell of out here.

Closing his eyes, he let himself sink away. 

**X**

Waking up in pain was never a pleasure, but at least he knew he was awake, and not dead. Underneath the sound of his own breathing, he could hear distant footsteps; most likely the reason he woke up. The footfalls became steadily louder; Steve scrambled to sit up, ignoring the dull ache that pulled at his skin and muscles, straining against the dim light of his room to listen to who was coming. With certain relief, he noticed that he was hurting less already, though he was still not ready to get back up. Soon, though. Very soon. 

The footsteps passed, not stopping for even a second before his door. Steve released his breath, than leaned back against the wall, tilting his head up with a sigh. 

Like that, he sat there in silence, thinking about the unfairness of it all. None of this was his fault, none of this had come of his own doing. He never asked to get changed into this, into some mindless fighter of the ring, the Captain of Death, locked up in a large broom closet. It was not his fault, not his doing. 

The anger started like a cluster of sparks deep in his stomach, exploding like fireworks, and his hands clenched to fists. He breathed out heavily, gritting his teeth. He felt it build, higher and stronger, warm and thich as it clogged up his throat and he could barely swallow. He _hated_ it here, he _hated_ Rumlow, he _hated_ Garrett, he _hated_ it here. Everything about this place was stupid and cruel. 

From the concrete floor that smashed his head every time he was thrown down, to the walls that kept him trapped, and the people who paid to see him fight. Perverted enjoyment, that was all it was to them. Not cruel, not hurtful, not stressing to the point he had no coherent thoughts left, _enjoyment_. 

Hate was the devil's path, or so the priests in that stuffy old church had spoken so long ago, and it angered him that he remembered old men in robes preaching they were going to hell and not the gentle woman with the pretty face, or the brunet boy on the green swing. He remembered bad and fear and worse, but love and kindness was lost. The first emotions to jump ship. Typical.

Hate would get you no prize or satisfaction or redemption, they said, it would merely corrupt your soul and bring pain and destruction. It was fruitless to cling onto, but Steve _hated_ his handlers. He _hated_ it here. It spread throughout his entire system, shutting down all other feelings, and becoming central to his mind. 

It welled up in his heart, the anger and pain and fury that burned him up from the inside, just thinking about what he had been so close to, but was probably never going to have again. It burned so deeply that it scorched the very tissue of his body, like a volcano, building pressure so hot and fiery, containing enough heat to make a stone boil. It expanded, surging through his body like a race car on fire. 

A stifled groan sat on his lips, waiting to be released as he reached out a hand and placed it on the cold floor tiles, using it to push himself back up. He rolled over, and got to his knees, then almost collapsed again, but he did not give up. He was alright. It was not that bad. Getting to his feet right away would be wishful thinking, so he just settled for crawling across the floor, at least for now. 

The door was open, ajar, a small slip between as to let in some fresh air. That air was nice, better than the stuffy air cooped up in here, mixed with sweat of heat and fear. He pushed himself further up, unsteady, wobbly, his legs quivering like that of a newborn fawn, but he managed. He managed. Then, out of nowhere, dizziness rushed up at his head, causing him to stagger back, arms flailing as to catch something to hold himself up with. He reached for the door, grabbing the edge and he clung onto it as though it was a lifeline, his legs slipping just a little.

As he climbed back up, he lolled heavily to the side, nearly collapsing were it not that he could grip the door before he fell. His knees buckled, he tried to hold on, but sagged down against his will. He swallowed again, blinking, shaking his head to get rid of the blur and the dizziness. He could do this. One step at the time. 

Gripping the door tightly, he looked around the corner. Standing back on his feet, he held his breath, watching, listening. He strained his ears to hear out in the silence of the hallway. With quivering legs, he stepped out, trying to feel whether or not someone would approach soon. He took a few deep breaths, letting the air sink through his lungs, filling his every bit. He stopped when he got dizzy, shaking his head shortly as to get to it leave. This was it.

He was going to make a run for it. 

**X**

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, the cold rush taking over when his legs became numb. This was not adrenaline that came out of a place of excitement, as many people attributed adrenaline to. This came out of a place of pure, unwavering terror. It was panic and worry and fright all thrown into one mix and forced down his throat, but it gave him power. The kind of power that he needed right now. 

He did not know where he was going, or if everything would be alright. All he knew was that he had to keep running. If he just kept running, things would be alright. If he kept running, he would be safe eventually. He nearly tripped over his own feet, but he kept running. He nearly crashed into the front door, but he kept running. The dark of the night met him outside the large warehouse. He kept running. 

His footsteps were fast, mud splashed up as the soles hit the ground. It ruined his new shoes that he had just bought somewhere yesterday, but he did not care.

With each footfall a jarring pain shot from his ankle to his knee, all the way up to his burning torso. Perhaps he should have waited a moment more before running, wait for when his body was truly healed, but he did not care, not right now. He was running, and he was going to keep running. His heart beat frantically, all or nothing. Fail and his whole body would pay the price, run and the damage was limited mostly to his shins and knees. Every noise he heard made his head whip around wildly.

From a distance, he heard the quickening thuds of feet as they began to approach, the roar of voices close by. He heard his heart thumping in his head and his legs began to quiver like jelly. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he pushed forward and continued to run, run, run and keep on running until he was safe and sound at home. 

Home…

 _"This is your home,"_ Rumlow’s voice cut through his mind.

No.

He would find a new one. 

If he didn’t get caught before that.

The sound of his own feet crunching leaves and stones reached his ears, and the frantic beats of his own heart pounded in his throat. He begged his feet to go faster. Forcing his head up to look at the road before him, the road of sand and dirt and stones that crunched beneath tires, his shoulders slumped as it reached beyond the horizon, so far to go, but he kept on running, running like the wind, knowing one little mistake could mean the end.

Then, he tripped over a tangled, dried root and the earthly ground rushed up to his face as he thudded to the ground. _I’m going to die… I’m going to die._ Those words choked his mind as he struggled to stand up, kicking up stones and dirt. He looked around in fear, the palms of his hand bled a little from his fall, but it was nothing compared to the state of panic and pain he was already in.

The many thumping footfalls slowly make their way up to his limp shaking body. He could hear them approach him, still a couple steps behind, but they were there. They came in the time of the hidden sun, with darkness in their eyes and death in their hands. Every time he saw a shadow creep up on him from behind and he turned around; it was gone. In the blink of an eye. Nothing more than his imagination running wild. If they got to him, it would be over. If they got to him… 

He did not even want to think about it. 

He picked himself up from the ground, and continued his escape. He had to be faster than them, he had to get away. If only the sun would come up, if only the light would chase away the dark shadows that clawed at his legs, trying to make him trip once more. It was still dark, not even the moon there to light his path or show him where he was, where he was going. The road was long, swaying left and right, leading two ways and it confused him.

He was not ready.

There was no way he should be here, running from the warehouse in the middle of nowhere, where people spoke with hushed voices and foreign tongues. He was not ready, a fawn standing on quivering legs, big eyes looking left and right. He was not ready, by far. He had given himself no time, he had _needed_ more time, but he thought he could make it. He was confused. He wanted this, but he dreaded this. He wanted to go out, but did not want to go back. He wanted the peace of sleep and void, but he hated the pain and the fear.

The next thing he remembered was that he tripped once more, wrongly estimating the depth of a pothole in the road, and his foot caught on. He tumbled, around and around, arms and legs flailing as to get a hold of something that would ensure his safe landing, but there was nothing. He could do nothing as his body thumped against stones, bruising at every possible angle. 

His heart was beating fast as if it were the one of a horse that had been galloping for hours. Sweat poured down his neck and back. Each beat of his heart was accompanied by a painful throb against his skull. A hammer against an anvil. The beating of the drums, sharp on his ears and striking fear in his heart, the promise of love never to be felt again, a life laid in another’s hands.

He did not think his heart could beat any faster, or it would simply not be able to keep up the pace and tear itself apart. It had to slow down. Everything had to slow down. He was the fire in a dry bush, jumping from branch to branch as fast as he could, but he had to be ice on the water; slow, labored, drifting lazily.

Not even a few minutes later, hands ceased his arms, yanking him up. He growled in response, flailing his arms and legs as he kicked and clawed around. He screamed until his throat was sore, and he screamed again. He refused to stop fighting, writhing to escape the hold he was in, shouting insults at the men who held him, his head moving wildly to the sides with his struggles to break free.

Never would he succumb to their reign of terror. Not again. He had tasted freedom, and he was never going to give it up again. He was not ready for that. There was James, who was nice and gentle and who hugged him so tightly, and he had choices that were his to make. James said he would come back. James said he wanted to be with Steve. He would be safe with James, he was sure of it. 

After a couple minutes of game of tug and pull, they reached the warehouse, and Steve almost cried at how little distance he had covered. 

Pathetic. 

Truly. 

There was no other word for it. 

"It’s a 130 miles to the city, you fucking idiot," Rumlow spat at him, as soon as he had walked up to Steve, "What exactly were you planning to do, walk?"

"Anything to get away from _you_ ," Steve bit back, feeling the courage rise. There were two guards, one on either side of him, ready to step in and hold him back did he try to make a run for it again. If the opportunity presented itself, Steve surely would. 

Just thinking about what could be waiting for him on the other side of that road gave him energy, a will to continue. James wanted him, wanted to be with him, wanted to see him. That was enough. It was. It was a burning desire that floated through him like a ship on the ocean, its strong bows cutting the waves with ease, no matter how hard they tried to push it back. The waves could not stop him, neither could Rumlow or Garrett. He had purpose now.

Out of nowhere, Rumlow turned back around and struck Steve right in the face with his fist. Steve had no time to react whatsoever, and his face whipped to the side by the force of the blow. He had barely time to recover before Rumlow hit again, with his other fist this time. Steve stumbled back, unable to do anything about it.

There was another hit, and another, then Rumlow turned halfway, lifted up his leg and kicked Steve hard against the ribs. He was thrown back by the force, back hitting the wall of the storage warehouse. There was another kick, in his face this time, before Rumlow grabbed his collar and pulled him closer. "That’s for this pathetic attempt at escaping. When are you going to learn that you can’t get away from here? You belong to me now, and I’ll do with you whatever the fuck I want, understood?”

Steve did not answer, he couldn’t, anyway, not with the disappointment and anger clogging up his throat, but he knew Rumlow wanted him to nod, to give some kind of confirmation that he understood. Steve refused. He felt blood tickle down his nose, and his face ached, but he refused to give in. Rumlow’s hand shot out to Steve’s throat, wrapping around it tightly. "I asked if you understood!"

Though Steve surely was one of the most stubborn people in the world, but even he did not think it was necessary to be choked half to death over some stupid power-seeking of drug lord. So, he nodded. Rumlow let go of his throat.

From the inside, Steve was boiling with anger. He was still sore from the day before, still worn down and in pain, so if he were to put up a fight there was a chance he would lose, and he would certainly not escape, but he was just so angry. He had been beaten, humiliated and screamed at, they had reached their grubby hands into his mind and ripped out the connections that kept him all together. And now Rumlow was looking at him smugly, as if he had won the world…

Unable to ignore it for any longer, Steve hit him right on that smug smile with his fist. Now it was Rumlow’s turn to stumble back, as Steve gave him a second punch to the face, harder than Rumlow had. Something snapped beneath his fingers, and Steve felt a lot better all the sudden. Rumlow let out a shout, alarming the other two men a little too late. Blood ran down his nose and lip. The two other men held Steve back before he could strike a third time. It was great, satisfying, _terrifying_ , but he loved it. 

“You fucking son of a bitch!” Rumlow cursed. It could be his catchphrase.

While Rumlow was cursing and swearing beneath his breath, pinching his nose shut, a third man had went and grabbed a bunch of tissues for him. Rumlow began wiping his nose with the white paper, which turned red rather fast. Steve knew what he just did was stupid, and probably not the best he could have done in this situation, but he had done it anyway. And he would do it again if he had the chance. A feeling of euphoria settled in his stomach.

Rumlow took a second tissue and held it against his nose. "You’re gonna regret that, you fucking asshole!" he yelled.

To stop the bleeding, he lay his head in his neck. Steve hoped it would bleed for a whole time longer, and that his nose would never heal quite right again. He deserved that. Panic and satisfaction blended in a mix that him high on adrenaline, and he could barely think. He would pay for this, he would pay for this so badly, but he was so angry, so done, so hurt and messed up, and he just wanted to _leave_ , he just wanted to _go_. He was so fed up with this, so _done_ , so exhausted. 

The only thing that kept him up was the promise of seeing James again, that was what he was doing it for.

For James.

Not a second later, Rumlow stormed up to Steve, who was still held by the other two men. He raised his foot and kicked Steve right in the stomach, forcing the him to fall to his knees, gasping for breath. There was no breath left in his lungs; he could not breathe.

"You clearly didn’t learn anything from that beating I gave you the other day. Let’s see," Rumlow said, his voice sounding both angry, and like he was greatly enjoying himself. It was a scary combination. "How fast do you heal again? Biologically enhanced, wasn’t that what Garrett said?"

Rumlow grabbed a fistful of Steve’s hair and pulled at it, forcing Steve to look up at him. There was no mercy in his eyes, only anger. Steve’s eyes flicked down and he saw Rumlow was holding a knife. The hand that held his hair suddenly pulled him forward hard, so Steve fell to his stomach. His hands shot out to break his fall, and Rumlow immediately stepped onto one, his foot pressed at the place between Steve’s wrist and knuckles. A few seconds later, one of the two guards stepped on his other hand. 

"A few days without being able to use your hand seems like a good punishment to me," Rumlow said, as he stared down at Steve, forcing a bony knee into his back to keep him down on the ground. "After this, you’ll think twice before you disobey me."

He bend down, and set the knife on the place where Steve’s thumb started. Steve swallowed thickly, and his eyes widened, head pounding in his chest as soon as he realized what would happen in a few seconds. _NO!_ Before he could try to offer any kind of defense, struggle or scream or fight, Rumlow pushed the knife through the skin, calmly. 

Blood immediately began pouring down from the deep cut. 

"Maybe this will teach you," he said icily.

His levels of adrenaline were so high that Steve did not immediately feel the pain when he was supposed to, completely jacked up on the sheer panic that ran through his veins. Though he did not feel it, not right away, he saw clear as day how Rumlow pushed the small blade in deeper until he had reached the sinew, and then calmly cut through. Steve’s stomach turned. 

Rumlow pulled the knife out and placed it on a second finger, Steve’s index finger, moving it threateningly and his intentions were clear. "Obviously, a beating alone is not enough."

Steve’s breathing fastened, and a scream filled with pain started to form in his throat as Rumlow pushed through again, cutting through wiry muscle and sinews. Though more adrenaline surged through his body faster than he could process, the pain was very much there and he groaned, forcing out quick breaths that made his head spin.

Third finger; Steve was screaming. Rumlow stayed dreadfully calm. "Hopefully, this will be."

Fourth finger. _It hurt, it hurt, it hurt._ "You will surrender to us."

Fifth finger. _Please make it stop!_ "Even if I have to break you for it."

Steve could not utter a word, just let out small cries and whimpers, biting back the scream of agony that burned in his throat. 

When all the sinews of the skin between his fingers had been cut through, blood pouring down the small cuts that lined the muscles, both Rumlow and the guard removed their foot from the back of his hands. Steve immediately pulled his wounded hand closer. He was not crying, not yet, but tears were not far away. Rumlow stopped him by grabbing his wrist, not letting him cradle his hurt hand close.

"I’ll teach you," Rumlow said, "There’s a lot of work to do, but I’ll beat that stubbornness out of you. In the meanwhile, don’t get blood on your clothes. We don’t want to make Garrett suspicious."

Steve could not move his fingers, not an inch. They hurt and hurt and _hurt_. It hurt so much. He almost curled up to something fetal in pain. Blood was seeping out of the wounds like rivulets, it burned like fire, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing rapidly, drowning in his panic and pain. 

It stung meaner than a wasp at any sensitive piece of skin, deeper than a knife that pierced flesh and bone. It was horrible, and Steve thought his fingers would fall off did he try to move them. This had never happened before. Never. 

"Because, Rogers," Rumlow continued, leaning forward as to loom over him, "You’re not going to say a single thing to Garrett, you hear me? Not. A. Word. Understood?"

When no answer came, Rumlow grabbed Steve’s wounded hand and pulled it up, cruelly pinching the wounded parts between his own fist. Steve screamed again, the pain throbbing through his entire body. "Yes! Yes, I understand!"

It stopped, Rumlow held his hand by his wrist now. "The more you fight it, the harder and more painful this situation will be. I don’t want to hurt you, Steve, but you’re not leaving me a choice here. You think I want to beat you? You think I enjoy doing this to your hand?" Rumlow sighed deeply, almost as though this was hurting _him_ , and not Steve, who was quietly whimpering. "When will you learn?"

He yanked Steve up, sending the pain scorching through Steve’s body like a wildfire. He couldn’t. No. It hurt. He could take punches to the face or ribs or stomach, he could be thrown against the walls, even the harsh beating with the leather belt, but this, being cut like that… no. No. It was worse. Nearly a thousand times more painful. This was so much worse. He would rather take the belt, any day, every day. He could not move his fingers. He could not move his fingers. 

_He could not move his fingers_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank everyone again for your overwhelming support, it really makes me feel good and want to continue writing! And I thank everyone who gave me support for my tests!


	7. Hell is Empty (All the Demons are Here)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had my last exam!! Finally, I'm done (for this year, but shh). It went... meh. Not as well I wanted to, but oh well, I'll see. Thank you so much for your patience! And thank you SO MUCH for everyone who’s stayed with me so far, you are immensely appreciated! So, here, my lovelies, feast on this chapter.

He was strong, even if he refused to believe that he was.

Strength showed itself in many ways, whether it showed itself in the ability to lift a heavy rock, or in the way that he clenched his hands to fists, bit his rosy lips and forced himself to hold back tears, sitting on the front row to watch his life crumble down and lay broken at his feet. 

It was all he wanted to do – to let it all out, to scream out his pain, his loss, and his agony. To let the tears roll down his cheeks for hours on end, to make the heavens know they were not the only one crying. But he did not. And that was strength.

Though it was not physical strength, it was strength nonetheless.

Perhaps even a deeper kind.

As the night slipped between the cracks beyond the horizon, giving way for light and dawn, rain trickled down the heavens, falling outside the front doors. He heard its fingers drum on the roof, a steady _rick-tick-tick-tick_ that lasted for hours. It filled up the hollow room with sounds and echoes, an endless droning that chased away the eerie silence that was often there. He was thankful for the rain, for the distraction that it offered.

Sometimes, the silence that ruled would hit him in the face like a fist made of iron, or hurt his ears in a way he could not stop or prevent. It would be an assault on his mind, refusing to leave him alone until he sat in the corner of the room, rocking himself back and forth and trying to think of happy times that only made him sadder than he had been before. A different kind of sad, but still, so horrible sad. 

The silence was helpful sometimes. It would help him concentrate, focus on the task beforehand though he knew it was useless, and did not have any point. To keep fighting when they threw him into the ring was like using a bucket of water to paint the walls with. It did not get him anywhere, and it had no use. Still, he did it, because there was nothing else he could do.

Right now, he wanted anything but to focus. He did not want to concentrate, not on anything. The walls of the warehouse, that were a dull, concrete gray already, looked dim. Vague. Everything around him looked dim, as though the light had been sucked out of the world and there was nothing but the rain. 

Gingerly, he moved the fingers of his left hand, watching with a furrowed forehead how the irritated red and white lines moved along. They had healed shut already, though still burning. He could not curl in his fingers to form a fist; that hurt too much and his fingers refused to work along. Instead, he just kept them slacked, trying to ignore how they throbbed, and how the muscles quivered beneath his fingers. 

He bit his lip, working his teeth around the bottom one, chewing softly before tearing off a small piece of skin, tasting faint copper directly after, and his lip stung. 

As he sat there on the cold floor, exposed to the trickle of rain outside, feeling some of it land on his body, he wondered what it all meant. The anger had faded, as had the fear and the panic and the feverish adrenaline that had taken over his head. It was all gone. It was like he had dropped a mile, and was still falling. Or perhaps he had long hit the ground, and just stopped feeling altogether. He wanted the rage back. The anger. He wanted it back. He hated feeling so empty. He wanted to be mad. Furious.

"Whatcha doin’ here, kid?" Garrett asked, coming up to his side. 

Steve did not answer, he merely rested his tired head against the frame of the door, watching the droplets trickle down outside. 

As he moved to sit down on the floor, Garrett let out a small grunt, the creeping effects of age catching up to him after all these years. Steve did not look up. He kept staring through the open door, at the world outside. A world he could never reach, that would never be his, and that he could never have again. 

"I’ll be leaving soon," Garrett said then, resting his hands on his knees, "You’ll be okay?"

It was not a question, not really. Not the kind that had Garrett expecting anything else than the usual answer. He had probably had a conversation with Rumlow about the rough treatment and his second escape, one of those that bore no meaning at all, one of those conversations where both sides said what they needed to say, and then continued life all the same. Steve was not alright, nor did he think he would be. 

Not without James, anyway. 

Garrett sighed, softly. "I know it’s not always easy, kid, but I believe in you. You’ll be fine. Like always. Right?"

It was like a void. A dark void. Settling right there in his chest. The realization of all the years he had been here, and all the years more he would have to stay. It was like a dark void that consumed everything in his path and left him strangely hollow inside. Like he was empty now, all feeling and emotion just torn out of him. 

A hand rested on his back, and Steve flinched slightly, knowing it was not the gentle touch of James, but the cruel hand of one of his handlers. Garrett was less cruel than Rumlow, far less, but that did not make him kind. It made him considerate. He had an eye for the future, and, contrary to Rumlow, could actually understand that hurting Steve now would only endanger his cooperation in the future. Steve wished Garrett would take his hand off his back. 

"Rumlow crossed a line, I’ll tell you that. He isn’t supposed to do things like that, and he got his retribution for it. I talked with him, he won’t be doing it again."

 _Sure he will_ , Steve thought, _only this time he will make extra sure that you won’t find out_. Rumlow would never stop doing whatever he liked, that was just not him. Maybe he would behave for a few days, maybe even a week, but eventually he would be back to his normal behavior, and the whole circle would restart. A set way that was never broken. And then, Steve would get hurt again. 

Garrett sighed a little, then shrugged at the lack of answer and moved to stand, but Steve’s voice stopped him, having him sit back down to look slightly puzzled, not expecting this to be the reply to what he just said.

"What does ‘pawn’ mean?" Steve asked, finally, having waited more than fourteen years to work up the courage to ask. 

Not the kind of courage that would lessen his fear for Garrett or punishment, but the kind of courage to find out something that was better off untold. He had always wondered what it meant, but he had never asked because he knew knowing would not make his life any better, nor did he think it would contribute much to his happiness. 

Pawn was a word he had not known the meaning of for over fourteen years, for he was afraid of the answer. 

"I take it you don’t mean the chess piece?" Garrett asked, and Steve shook his head. "Well, it’s a... collateral-based loan, I guess. It means that instead of money, you give someone something of value. If the other person agrees to it, they will give you the loan. Then they keep your item until you repay said loan."

Oh. 

Steve clenched his jaw harshly, a hazy blur creeping into his eyesight, and he shifted his head to look at the rain that fell outside. He did not want Garrett to see him biting back tears, he did not want to give the man that kind of satisfaction, to show himself being vulnerable like that. He had already been beaten down enough. 

"You asked my dad if he was sure about wanting to pawn me," Steve said, his voice breaking over the last few words. "What did you mean?"

Garrett seemed to realize what was going on, and his face fell. He was not laughing, not even a glimpse of that usual cheery, messed up attitude on his face. He seemed… almost sad, put in a difficult spot, somewhere in between. His expression slackened, and he nodded a few times, though it was unsure whether the nod was meant for Steve or himself. 

"Right…" he said, slowly, hand coming up to scratch the back of his head. Clearing his throat a little, he pressed his lips to a thin line. "Yeah, I remember that. Well… you see." Garrett then sighed, shaking his head. "Listen, kid. Sometimes, in a loan, one of the parties fails to pay it off. Your father borrowed money from some dangerous people, people who weren’t happy when he didn’t pay up in time. In your case, he couldn’t repay the loan and I got to keep the item. You."

"What happened to my dad?" Steve asked, nearly whispering.

"Probably dead," Garrett answered, "Sorry kid."

Steve wished he was too.

**X**

A cold wind was blowing, grasping at any piece of naked skin, chilling him down to his bones, but Steve did not care. He sat huddled into himself, balancing delicately on one of the wooden posts that was put up along the side of the warehouse, hanging horizontally, so one of his legs was dangling down, and the other was bend before him. The rain had stopped, but the heavens were a dull grey still. His hand burned less, on its way to heal.

Sitting there quietly, thinking of all ways he hated the world, Steve was lightly scratching his nails at the wood to occupy himself, almost imagining it was his nails on James’ skin. Or James’ nails on his own. He shouldn’t. Probably. But he wanted to. He could not help it. He was thinking of James’ hands, of James’ voice, of James’ lips and his eyes. Eyes that looked at Steve like he actually meant something. Like he _was_ something.

Every so now and then, he would look down at the door behind him. The post was not that high, his leg in perfect distance to grab and yank at – which had happened before, actually – and the front doors were not too far away. Every time he looked, it was because he thought he heard something. A voice, footsteps. Anything. Nothing. There was nothing. He was safe still, for now. No one in sight to scream at him.

Then, footsteps did approach, small rocks and sand and dirt scrunching beneath boots, and Steve snapped up from his thoughts, quickly moving to peer down, hoping to see James. He was ready to tell James now, tell him everything there is to tell. He would not hold back, he would be good and tell James everything he wanted to know and confirm every suspicion James probably already had. 

Only, it was not James. 

Instead, it was Rumlow, and Steve quickly pressed himself back against the cold wall of the warehouse, pulling up his legs though there was little room. 

"Steve?" Rumlow asked, "You up there?"

Steve did not answer, but instead pressed himself back further, taking shallow breaths in the hopes of making himself invisible. He couldn’t, of course, make himself invisible, but somewhere it felt like Rumlow could not see him if he curled up tight enough. Garrett had left, so it was just him and Rumlow again, something he was not happy with.

"I’m not going to hurt you, Steve," Rumlow said, "You wanna come down from there?"

"Leave me alone," Steve said, wrapping his arms around his stomach, hugging himself, in the lack of having someone else to do it for him.

"Don’t be like that, Steve," Rumlow said, stopping down the post, peering up at Steve who was perched on top of it. The post was positioned roughly at the height of when he would hang his foot, it would reach Rumlow’s face– Steve debated whether or not to make use of that. "Just come down, it’s alright."

The post had to be that low, otherwise he would not have been able to climb onto it, as there was nothing to hold on to or put his foot on. This also meant that Rumlow would be able to climb onto it as well, if he wanted to. So far, he did not seem any to have any intentions to come up there, though he did want Steve to come down. Steve still felt the strain of his hip, where leather had hit skin. He did not dare to risk it. 

"I just want to talk to you, that’s all." 

Rumlow then smiled at him, as though everything was fine, and that was quite upsetting to say the least. Steve let out a small, unnerved noise, pressing himself further back against the cold surface, one hand gripping the edge of the post for he did not want to fall, looking down at the other man with slightly widened eyes, and his senses dialed up a notch. 

"Come now, Steve," Rumlow said, "You’re not making this any easier. Just come down for me."

It was a trick, it had to be. He could feel it. This was nothing like feeling James was only giving him dinner to get him to talk, to coax him out of his shell and then strike, to get him to confess things so that Rumlow may tear him apart, no, this was different. This had nausea push up the back of Steve’s throat, his stomach clenching uncomfortably, and he swallowed thickly. 

There was a smile on Rumlow’s face, sweeter than honey and with the friendliness of a hungry shark. Steve was the fish. He had practiced on that smile, Steve just knew it, the ice-cold look that chilled his bones told him that. There was nothing to those eyes, only a hunger for power, and a carelessness that concerned everyone. 

"I promise you, I won’t hurt you if you just come down like a good boy." Rumlow’s voice was so calm, and it made all the alarm bells in his head ring. Steve was tensed, scared, and he knew that he should not come down. He did not know what would happen to him there. Nothing good, most likely. "You wanna be a good boy for me, Steve? Like you were for Garrett?"

A few more of those sentences, and Steve thought he would throw up. He could feel the bile pushed up by his clenching stomach, burning in his chest, moving up his throat, and he swallowed again, forcing it back down. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t good. Rumlow was only being nice– or, acting _his version_ of nice, because he knew Steve was vulnerable right now. Garrett must have told him all about it. 

Rumlow knew Steve was in a bad place, and whatever he was planning, it wasn’t good.

"Come out, _now_ ," Rumlow growled, though still lightly and somewhat cautiously. 

Steve moved, just a little, going to shift his leg as to dangle it down the side, almost as though he was considering coming down. That was not his plan. He kept his eyes on Rumlow, watching his every turn and twist, ready for when the man would try to grab his ankle and pull. Rumlow was smirking already, stepping forward a little more. Into Steve’s reach. His hand must be itching to yank Steve down from the post.

Before that could happen, Steve thrust up his leg and tried to kick Rumlow in the face. Because there was still some distance between the two, and Rumlow was fairly fast himself, he could just barely dodge the foot. The man let out a curse, hand reaching for his nose, but it was not bleeding again, not hurt. Too bad. Steve wouldn’t mind breaking the bastard’s nose twice. 

"That wasn’t very nice," Rumlow said, dropping his hand and looking back up, "Bad Steve."

"I’m not a dog," Steve answered, recalling the first words he had ever said to James, "I’m not a weapon. I’m a person. You can’t make me obey."

"If you don’t come down here yourself, I’ll have to make you, and believe me, you don’t want that."

No answer. 

Rumlow sighed, then reached in the waistband of his pants, taking out a small gun, aiming it towards him, and Steve’s eyes widened. He scrambled backwards, looking around in fear as he tried to determine what would be the best path to escape, but before he could a loud _BANG_ echoed around the abandoned road. 

In shock and surprise, Steve flung himself backwards, trying to dodge the bullet that went faster than he could see. Only he had not anticipated the width of the post quite right, and his hands grabbed into air. His stomach lurched, heart stopping and then beating frantically, and he tumbled off the wooden post. He landed on his back, all the air forced from his lungs and he lay there without a wisp of breath in his chest. Paralyzed. Eyes wide open. 

Footsteps rushed at his side, hands grabbing his shoulders, shaking him. "Breathe, Rogers," Rumlow said, as though stating the obvious would help. It did not. "Goddammit. _Breathe!_ "

Steve sucked in a wisp of air, squeezing his eyes shut as pain tickled through, but he had little time to react before Rumlow grabbed his wrist and clicked something around it. Something made of metal. His other wrist was grabbed as well, and as he lay there, eyes opened again, he watched in stupor as Rumlow handcuffed him. 

"Wha- what are you doing?" Steve asked, shoving his feet against the ground as to sit up. Rumlow gave the chain links a little tug, heaving him further up. 

"Precaution," he answered, "Come on. Let’s go inside."

Precaution? For what?

Nothing good, that was clear. Steve came up, wanting to stand still to think about it a little longer, but Rumlow grabbed his bicep and pulled him forwards, shooing him towards the doors of the warehouse. He was cuffed. Why was he cuffed? 

"After you," Rumlow said, smiling a little.

Steve eyed him with suspicion, taking small, slow steps towards the front doors of the warehouse. He felt a chill shooting up his spine the moment he stepped forward, but it could have been his imagination, the worry that sat deeply, and the wariness of everything that happened right now. When realization hit, he stopped dead in his tracks, heart accelerating in his chest.

A second later Rumlow bumped into him, not expecting Steve to stand still already. Their eyes crossed, barely a moment longer than it took to blink, but Rumlow had seen it, and he smiled. This time, it was not a sweet smile with underlying threat. It was a cold-blooded smile of perverse amusement. It was a smile of stone-hearted sadist, who was about to have a field day.

As he stood still, looking back at the gape hole that was the hall, he knew that whatever Rumlow was planning, it was nothing good. Hands curled around his biceps from behind, holding them tight, nails digging through the fabric of his shirt. There was a hot breath on his ear, and he could practically feel the maliciously grin against his skin, like the scrape of sharp teeth.

The proximity of the other man made his flight-instinct scream, even though it had been silent for so long. That worried him the most, perhaps. He had always gone in head-first, never truly afraid of what would follow. He was worried, and maybe dreaded the next thing, but he was never _terrified_.

"Don’t be scared," Rumlow whispered, breath grazing over his ear, hands tightening around Steve’s arms, "It won’t hurt. Just a simple questioning."

Steve swallowed, heavily, something cold and painful rising in his chest and he knew he had to get out of here. He had to run. It did not even matter that he always faced whatever was thrown at him, it did not matter that he never ran because if he started running, he would never stop, it did not matter. Not anymore. Not here.

He did not want to answer some questions. He had no answers. Watching the doors, feeling his heart pound in his chest, Rumlow’s rancid breath against his ear, it was not a situation in which bravery applied. Staying here would be top of the line stupid, but not the kind people had always accused him of being.

"You can save yourself a lot of trouble," Rumlow continued, when Steve still did not move, "If you just get to the kitchen yourself."

"And if I refuse?" Steve asked, jutting his chin up.

"Then we will make you."

One of his arms was released, and Rumlow was only holding him by one now. He could try to pull himself loose, but where would he go? The city was so far away, so many miles, and there was no vehicle to use. He was still considering just running away; his mind told him that starving from thirst and hunger was better than the alternative he was offered here. Only… they would catch up to him. They always did. 

Upon realization of exactly what Rumlow just said, his eyes widened, the blue shocking against his paling skin. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, the feeling of fright doubled, and the urge to fight and escape increased dramatically. He breathed in deeply. " _…We_?"

Footsteps approached, and the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck raised. A figure stood up from the shadows, which Steve had suspected him from doing intentionally. Whoever it was, he had been waiting until his introduction came by, to step out of the dark corner to reveal himself. Steve squinted his eyes, which then widened when he saw it was Rollins. One of Rumlow’s best… friends? Were they friends? He did not know.

"I don’t want to go inside," Steve said, nodding at the doors, knowing what would happen if he did, and he felt Rumlow’s fingers tightened dangerously around his bicep. "You can’t do this."

"Oh, but we _can_ ," Rollins answered, a grin spreading across his face as well.

Steve shook his head, looking him up and down. "No, Garrett said–"

"Garrett is not here anymore," Rumlow interrupted, "He has better things to do. He asked me to question you, so questioning you I will. It is up to you whether that will involve a lot of pain or not. So, get inside."

"No, I will not get inside," Steve growled, the familiar fire of anger flaring up in his chest.

For a moment, Steve thought Rumlow had let go of them, given up to try and force him, but the hands that never made themselves dirty only went away for a second. He felt large arms slid up under his armpits, tightening around his chest and pinning him tightly. At that same moment, Rollins closed in on the two.

"Tie his legs," Rumlow said.

A spike of adrenaline surged through Steve’s body, speeding up his heartbeat and his breath ragged in his throat. 

"No!" he snapped, rocketing his feet off the floor to kick up at Rollins’ face. His foot collided with Rollins’ chin, and the man jumped to his feet grasping at his face in shock and pain, and Steve used that moment to balance his body against Rumlow, pulling his legs up, and he kicked them out to Rollins’ chest.

Another satisfying collision, and Rollins was send stumbling back, arms flailing in the hope of grabbing something to hold on to, but there was nothing to grab and he went flat on his ass. Rumlow watched amused and surprised, though that surprise changed into something angry and frustrated rather quick.

"The harder you make it, the more painful _we_ will make it."

At the moment, Steve could not care less. He thrashed in the hold, trying to break the cuffs that held his wrists together as he kicked and stomped his legs at the same time. He tried to stamp them onto Rumlow’s feet, to kick Rumlow’s shins, to throw his head back and hit Rumlow’s face. He even went as far as trying to bite the arms that held him, knowing that he did not want to end up in the kitchen.

In a second, he had flung himself to the side, grabbing a handful of clothing, attempting to wrestle the man to the ground so that he could grab any weapon Rumlow may have. The cuffs were heavy around his wrists, obstructing nearly every movement of his arms. Still, he managed to jab Rumlow in the ribs, which was of one the most satisfying things he had done in a long time. With help of one of the security guards, stepping out from behind the doors, Rumlow managed to get the upper hand, and they dragged him into the warehouse. 

Steve dug the heels of his feet into the ground, trying to push himself backwards, throwing in all his weight and strength. Rumlow was prepared; he must have known Steve would try to escape, to fight back with everything he had. Rumlow fought back easily; Steve was bound and outnumbered. The muscles in Steve’s arms bulged, strong by years of training. He threw back his elbows, determined to keep his feet solid on the ground, even thrusting his own head backwards in an attempt to hit something, _anything_.

"Rollins, fucking hell, come over here and help!" Rumlow barked.

Steve was writhing, almost as though he was having a seizure and lost all control over his body. He needed to get free, he needed to run. A red haze blurred his eyesight as he fought and clawed, his heel colliding with a shin and he felt a pang of victory at the pained yelp behind him. He was a wildcat caught in a net, snarling and nearly hissing, going completely feral in his fear for what was next.

When Rumlow’s hold loosened, a reaction that followed after the pain in his shin, Steve pulled himself halfway free and attempted to turn so that he could punch Rumlow in the stomach. Just below the ribs, that was where he would aim, or at the kidneys, as that hurt the most. Or perhaps he would go really low and aim for the most sensitive area.

However, the chain links between the handcuffs around his wrists was grabbed by Rollins who had gotten back to his feet, and his chance of introducing Rumlow to a world of pain was shattered to a million pieces. He directed his momentum to throw a double-fisted punch at Rollins instead, because he could not part his arms. All the air was forced out of the other’s lungs, and he stumbled back again, gasping for breath with his hand on his chest.

Something hard collided with his back; Steve cried out, falling to one knee by the sheer force. It was a baton; Rumlow was wielding it with one hand and landed another harsh hit on Steve’s shoulder, making him cry out once more. Sharp pulsations shot from his shoulder to his brain, and nausea pushed up his throat.

While Rollins caught his breath, Rumlow and the guard each grabbed an arm, hands tight around his biceps, and they dragged him over to doors. Steve tried protesting, struggling once more, but Rumlow grabbed the end of his shoulder and squeezed, nearly blinding Steve with a white-hot pain.

"Get off me!" Steve shouted, breathing so fast he was getting dizzy, "I will rip your fucking throat out!"

Steve tried fighting with everything he had, thrusting out his arms and kicking his legs. The shackles would barely let him move, so he used them to his advantage. As he shoved the guard in the stomach, making him double over, he slung the chain of his cuffs around the other’s neck, trying to tighten it by throwing his weight to the other side.

"Get over here!" Rumlow snapped, and another set of footsteps hurried over.

The attempt to choke the first guard was futile, and their retaliation was violent. The guards held him tightly, Rollins and Rumlow shoved and hit just as hard as he did, and it did not take long before he went limp under multiple batons colliding with his back and sides, areas that would surely bruise. Even when restrained and subdued, he was difficult to move around. He put extra force behind his weight, feet dragging across the floor as they made their way over to the kitchen.

"Let me go!" Steve yelled, kicking his legs. He was breathing rapidly, mind spinning with adrenaline and fear. He could barely move against the three men, and the hits were hard on his body. 

The two men grunted as they took handfuls of each other's clothing, attempting to wrestle the other to the ground. Then, Rumlow released one hand and jabbed Steve in the ribs, causing him to keel over and Rumlow grabbed his arms again, yanking him backwards. Steve was better than this, though. 

"Come on, Steve, don’t be such a stubborn bastard!"

"Get fucked by Hitler!" Steve screamed back, throwing his weight around to attempt to escape, "Get your hands off me!"

If only the cuffs were gone, he would have been able to actually _fight_.

When they finally reached the kitchen, it was a whole other story to get him _into_ the room. He thrusted out his hands, pushing and hitting at the door that was still closed, in an attempt to push himself away. The guards did not move. He was dragged inside, towards one of the kitchen chairs. With rough grabs and yanks, he was turned around, his legs kicked out from underneath him by heavy boots as to break his stance, and they pushed him onto the wooden surface of the seat. His bound arms and legs were thrashing about, trying to hit as hard as he could.

With much effort, three sets of hands held him down to the chair, but it was not enough. Somehow, they had to remove the cuffs around his wrists, but it was difficult for them to spare any hands. They struggled to take the cuffs off, because as soon as one hand was free he struck it out at once, slamming his fist against the throat of the man closest by, Rumlow, who then cursed, pulling back at once.

The guard took his place, taking hold of Steve’s arm and forcing it down to the armrest. The second guard hurried over, working quickly to secure a cuff around his wrist, trying to lock it to the armrest. A short feeling of triumph flooded Steve’s senses when his other hand slipped free from the cuff. He turned at once, leaning onto his right side, lashing out at the guard that was tying him down.

Steve hit him against the jaw, enough anger and force behind the blow that he was sent backwards, crashing into the table. That earned him a blow against the head, a hand grabbing a fistful of hair and smashing it against the backrest, stunning him long enough so that his free arm could be cuffed down as well.

With hazy eyes, he looked at his arms and legs, his body throbbing after the blows to his skin and bones. They worked the cuffs quickly, making sure his ankles and wrists were secured so any large movement of his limbs was obstructed. 

That was it. He could not move, could not fight, could not escape. He was exposed, the air caressing any bare skin coldly. He was panting, but not necessarily because he was tired. He was more awake than before, more aware, his senses spiked, eyes wide open. Rumlow limped closer to him, his body probably hurting after crashing into that table, and it brought Steve a little bit of satisfaction, until Rumlow lashed out and punched him in the face, whipping his head to the side.

Steve’s chest heaved up and down faster than it should, his heart beating in his throat as cold air scraped his lungs. He somewhat regretted putting nearly all his strength and energy in trying to escape, because he felt a kind of fatigue pulling at his body, but he also knew he had to give everything to escape. There was some relief though; it seemed none of his four captors had come out unscathed either.

Especially Rumlow, who was panting, a yellow bruise forming on his face. He was absolutely furious, crystal clear, and Steve knew he should care, but knowing he had riled up his captors like that felt good. These men were sick in their head and evil in their heart.

"You can leave now," Rumlow growled, gesturing at the door. The two guards dipped their heads shortly before leaving, closing the door behind them.

The attention was back to Steve, and the two drug lords stood before him in silent anger, though they calmed quickly at the sight of the bound fighter before them. They seemed to find it to be satisfying, even, as something of relief and a twisted joy came to their faces. Steve’s eyes flickered back and forth between the two, unsure who of them to expect first.

He may have called a burning agony onto himself, terribly aches that would make him cry and scream, but Steve knew it would have ended with him bleeding no matter what, because he was not going to give these men what they wanted, no way in hell.

He strained against the cuffs, trying to move his hands, but the metal would not let him. It was Rumlow who approached him first. There was a certain look on his face that Steve hated right away. It was something smug, something arrogant, and Steve wanted to punch him to get rid of it. In silence, Rumlow let his gaze roam across Steve’s body, even going as far as to reach out a hand and stroke Steve’s bicep.

"Back off!" Steve snapped, forcing his lips into a snarl. 

"If you had just worked along and been a good boy, none of this would have happened," Rumlow said, dropping his arm before crossing both before his chest. "We just wanted to ask you some questions, that’s all. But you had to go ahead and make everything so difficult. Don’t you want to be good?"

A slight scoff left Steve’s lips, the ghost of the touch still lingering on his arm. "Uncuff me and I’ll show you how good I am."

"All in good time, Rogers… all in good time."

While Rollins said nothing, merely watching in silence, Rumlow grabbed the edge of the table with his hand, resting his hip against it a bit. "We don’t want to hurt you, you know? We’re not the enemy here."

"You’ve got me cuffed to a chair," Steve replied, slowly, "And you just beat me repeatedly."

"A necessary action that you called upon yourself!" Rumlow answered, leaning over towards Steve’s face, "But we can move passed that, can’t we? I must say I would rather have you cooperate, I like my products in good condition."

 _Products_.

In his steel blue eyes, there was hatred, a fury engulfed in fire, a lust for blood- _their_ blood. His body was trembling, though not only in anger. In fear as well. There was a horror behind his eyes, fear for the unknown future, but for now, the fury was more visible than the fright, his glare drilling into the other set of eyes, and Rumlow retreated a bit, put off by the immense hatred of the man tied before him.

"So, we were going to talk."

Steve growled in response, yanking at his limbs, but the restraints were too strong. He strained harder, trying to snap the metal and leather. It groaned, as though in mild pain, but it stayed put anyway, refusing to give in. "Get hit by a bus!" Steve spat out instead.

He would get out, and he would beat down every last man who tried to stop him.

"No thanks," Rumlow replied, chuckling slightly, an annoying sound in the back of his throat that sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Steve. "You see, we thought about just beating the answer out of you, but… Garrett wouldn’t agree. So, now we’re trying something else."

There was a wide, toothy grin, and Steve wanted to punch that one too.

"I don’t think Barnes was even aware of your value when he pulled you into his lap so carelessly," Rumlow said, taking a step closer. Steve shifted his gaze, darting from one man to the other. "The kid has such an eye for business, but not for raw talent. Didn’t even realize half of it when you were sitting right in front of him. It is not any man who can win every single fight for fourteen years straight. You’re special."

"Don’t talk about James like that," Steve snapped back. The fact Rumlow talked about James as though he was some young, inexperienced child instead of a smart, capable man who was kind and respectful made him even angrier than Rumlow talking about his apparent value.

"Barnes doesn’t matter. You do. Do you have any idea what Pierce would be willing to pay to get you?" Rumlow grinned, crossing eyes with Rollins shortly as he took a glance over his shoulder, "Garrett wouldn’t agree upon selling you, of course, he likes you just where you are, but I think differently. You are truly a hurricane in the pocket of any man who can keep you on a leash."

 _Which is no one_ , Steve thought. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, pushing it forward a little as to gather saliva in the front. There was no saying which of the two men he hated more; Rumlow for his deceit against Garrett and his cruel acts, or Rollins, for his work with traitors and terrorists. They were both degrading and dehumanizing, acting as though he was nothing more than a product to be sold.

Pierce was no easy man either. Steve had heard many stories about him, but had no idea which ones were true. The ones about the human trafficking, slavery, the organ harvesting. It made shivers crawl down his spine. No, he did not want to end up in the hands of Pierce.

"I’m not for sale," Steve spat, "I’m not a product."

"We will need to set some ground rules," Rumlow said, completely ignoring what Steve just said, "Some guidelines to help you act accordingly. First rule: when we ask you a question, you answer us truthfully."

Steve nearly swallowed the saliva he had gathered in his mouth, but could stop it just in time. He needed that. It would probably be Rumlow, as the man was much more vain, wanting to get respect from everyone around. Rollins would be angry, but the reaction would not be the least as satisfying as the one of someone who was actually disgusted.

The first rule was ridiculous, of course. It was right off the bat, and Steve decided to break rule number one right away. He stored it in his head, wanting to give as many wrong answers to the next questions as he possibly could.

"Do you understand?" Rumlow asked, looking at him expectantly.

There came no answer.

Rumlow walked forward, leaning over to him a little. "I asked if you understood?"

Steve pursed his lips and spat in Rumlow’s face, watching with a sneer how the other pulled back quickly, hands coming up to his face and sleeves running down his cheeks and nose with disgusted noises and filthy curses. He did not need to expect much pity from Rollins, as the other man merely watched and sighed, the look on his face indicating he thought the other to be an idiot.

"You see, this," Rumlow said, rubbing his sleeve across his face once more, " _This_ is why we need rules."

The strong urge to roll his eyes was pushed back into a corner of his mind. Though disgusted by the man before him, a part of Steve was curious to what the rest of the ‘rules’ would include. It meant postponing any torture they wanted to put him through, and the longer they were talking the more chance he had to be found by James, or anyone else who noticed that Rollins and Rumlow were breaking Garrett’s rules.

A silence fell as Rumlow still tried to clean his face with the fabric of his clothes, smoothing it down after as another attempt to stay calm. Rumlow took a deep breath, turning his attention back to Steve.

"You’re an animal, _Captain_." The voice was strangely plain as he spoke the insult. There was no hate, no judgement, it was as though Rumlow was merely stating a known fact, acting like Steve knew it as well. "Feral, if left to itself."

Steve scoffed, and now he did roll his eyes. Rumlow was playing a game, obviously and Steve had enough of it, the sheer ridiculousness of this all, the talking about him as though he was an object or a beast. No matter what Rumlow was going to put him through, or Rollins, he would not break. He never did.

"Garrett has always been too soft on you," Rumlow said, smiling a little as he stated it like it was the most obvious thing to do in this situation, "No one has ever taught you how to behave, and that is the problem. We have been going about this the wrong way." He leaned back a little, shrugging his shoulders loose. "We have been treating you like a person, with human boundaries, but clearly, that’s not working. You run away, you disobey, you lie and you steal. You need training. Don’t you think it’ll be better that way?"

Steve refused to reply. 

"Do I need to remind you what rule number one was?"

"Shove a knife up your ass," Steve snapped back, "I’m not your dog!"

"No one said you were," Rumlow answered calmly, "But you refuse to obey when we tell you to, so obviously something is not going right here. You just won’t listen to me, Steve. What do I have to do to make you listen?"

"You could start with untying me," Steve growled in response, yanking at the cuffs, making the metal rattle to emphasize his point, "Then you could stop hurting me, stop touching me, and start treating me like an actual person you bastard!"

"Stop being such a brat, you have everything you need here."

"Garrett did it better than you." Steve jutted up his chin in defiance, trying to hit Rumlow where it hurt. The man always wanted to be the best, and Steve would break that. He would slam it into the ground. "Garrett did it many times better than you. You’re like a worse version of him. Weak, dumb, you’re like the slime that sticks to his-"

_Slap_

By the sheer force of the open-handed blow to his face, Steve’s head whipped to the side. Tears welled up in his eyes without his intention, stinging meanly, and he drew in a sharp breath, biting his lip instead of letting out a sound, straining as to try and rip himself loose. Then he gave his head a little shake, tongue darting out to run along the corner of his mouth. 

He looked back up at Rumlow, newfound determination in his eyes. "I can do this all day."

"Sure you can," Rumlow answered, his fingers flexing, as though itching to hit Steve again, but he stayed put, controlling himself for now, and that was something, "I’m doing this to help you, Steve. Why you gotta give me this attitude?"

"Screw you," Steve growled, "I’ll never do what you say."

Rumlow let out a sigh. His condescending noises of disappointment only made Steve angrier, and the way Rollins was just silenting watching did little better. 

"Oh Steve, I _know_ you can do better than this," Rumlow said, putting his hands on his hips, "Why don’t you just lay down the attitude, and apologize for what you just said, hm?"

"Rot in hell."

Rumlow kept trying to get him to apologize, but Steve was not doing it, not this time. Rumlow had humiliated him before, having him sit and sometimes even _eat_ off the floor to try and dehumanize him, to put him down, to suck out the disobedience and make him feel like he was not worthy of being an actual person. 

Now, he was as low as he could get, and he refused to work along with it. Not anymore. Not this time. Not today. He was fighting today, with everything he had. 

While Rumlow talked, and Rollins sometimes added a few things, Steve kept working feverishly to break his bonds, getting more and more frustrated as they refused to work with him and just _break_. He refused to open his mouth for anything else than an insult, and he saw Rumlow was getting annoyed as well. 

"I could just leave you here, Steve," Rumlow said then, "For as long as I want. All night, if I have to. Will that make you change your mind? Will that knock some sense into you?"

"When I get out of here, I’ll break your neck," Steve growled. "I’ll rip your spine out and beat you to death with it."

He had heard that threat once after a fight. Not aimed at him, but between two men of which one had just lost the bet. He was angry, and shouted that. Steve had always remembered it. Rumlow stepped forward a little, raising a hand then, oddly calm, and Steve pushed himself back in the chair, what was he-

_Knock-knock_

Saved by the guest. The door opened, and Rumlow stepped back, allowing Steve to finally catch his breath, and take a small break from the shouting. His throat was hurting a little, and he was out of breath, but he had never felt this powerful before. He was cuffed to a chair, and vastly outnumbered, but he was feeling stronger than ever. It felt good to defy orders. It felt _good_ to scream back. It was like a heavy weight was lifted off his chest the more he cursed at Rumlow.

"What do you want?" Rumlow asked, seeing it was the man in the coat who walked in the room, the one who had sold Steve out and started this whole mess, his name was… David? No. _Dave_. Rumlow crossed his hands before his chest, leaning his weight on one leg. "I’m busy."

"James Barnes said he’d attend tonight’s fight, sir," the man, Dave, said, and a silence dawned in the room. The man’s face betrayed not a single emotion, but Steve certainly did not fail to catch the way he clenched his hands to fists and rested his weight on his toes, as though ready to sprint at any given moment. "I told him the Captain wouldn’t be fighting tonight, but he didn’t care. He wanted to come anyway."

Rumlow quirked an eyebrow in confusion, though slight anger crossed his face as well, then he jabbed a finger in Steve’s direction. "Does he know Rogers lives here? Why is he coming?"

"I’m not sure," the man answered, "He said he had some business to talk about. He did ask if the Captain would be present."

The man then kept silent, just standing there in the door opening as though he was waiting for it to become summer. Steve was gripping the edges of the armrests with his hands, white-knuckling the rim as he took as quiet breaths as he could. James Barnes. James was coming. James wanted to come tonight. This could be his chance.

"And?" Rumlow made a bit of an impatient gesture. "What did you say?"

"I said no, because I thought it would be odd if he was."

Rumlow nodded, "Alright, fine." He waved his hand a little. "You can leave now."

The man did, closing the door behind him and Steve released a heavy breath, tilting up his chin as he regarded Rumlow, who shared a brief look with Rollins. The latter shrugged, clearly uninterested in Steve’s faith, and still somewhat whiny about his injuries. Steve wanted to kick the man in the face. He _would_ kick the man in his face if he had the chance to. 

"Well, it seems like the big man’s coming tonight," Rumlow said, turning back to Steve, "I intend to make sure all of my guests leave happy and _completely_ unaware of your existence. Don’t want you to alarm Barnes and muck everything up, do we?"

Rumlow lay into Steve’s space, hand coming forward to now wrap around his throat, not quite squeezing just yet, just lying there, threateningly. "You make a single sound in here, you try to get anyone’s attention, you try to call for help, and I’ll come back and rip your tongue out as soon as the front door closes behind them. Got it?"

"Go sit on a screw," Steve bit back, "You can’t make me."

Rumlow scoffed, curling up his lip in disgust. "Let me put it differently: James will be sitting in my chair, in perfect view, and unless you want him riddled with bullets, I’d suggest you keep away." Rumlow tightened his grip, and Steve sucked in a breath. "You understand?"

Considering his options in his head, Steve settled for the most obvious one right now, and he nodded. He was not giving in, he was not giving up, this was merely making sure that James would not get hit, and Steve’s plan of escape would not get ruined. He wanted James to be safe, not dead or injured. Certainly not by Rumlow’s hands. Or any others’ hands. James had to be safe, like he made Steve feel.

To his surprise, Rumlow reached for the cuffs around his ankles and took them off, then the ones around his wrists as well. Like that, Steve darted out of the chair, taking quick steps away from the two men. Rollins stood sharp, hand hovering on his hip where his gun set, and his eyes flickered from Rumlow to Steve, and then back at Rumlow, who caught the sharp gaze and waved it off. 

"It’s fine, Jack, he won’t go anywhere." His eyes locked with Steve’s as he went to grab something from the kitchen drawer. "Get on your knees."

Steve froze for a moment, watching Rumlow grope about and then take out a plastic box. _No_. He knew what that meant. He knew what would happen. His head snapped towards the clock, seeing that it was only a few hours until the night would fall and the fights would start. A few hours until James came. If Rumlow did this… he wouldn’t be able to see James. That could not be true. 

"There were many more things I wanted to talk to you about," Rumlow said, sighing a little as if he was so tired, "But I guess that’ll have to wait. We’ll resume your training tomorrow."

"I hate you," Steve said then, looking back at Rumlow, voice quivering with rage, eyes glossing over against his will. "I _hate_ you."

"I know," Rumlow answered, still clenching the syringe, "Now _get down_."

Slowly, Steve lowered himself to his knees, sitting down on his legs. His hands clenched in his lap, nearly shaking with anger, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers around Rumlow’s throat and break it to pieces. He did not. He could not. It would all only get worse, and he was so horribly helpless that he would rather throw himself in front of a car. What other choice did he have but to obey? Fight? And then what? They always caught him, and he had nowhere to go.

"Neck," Rumlow ordered.

With great reluctance, Steve tilted his head to the side, baring the side of his neck. He hated this. He wanted to fight back. He _should_ fight back. Soon after, he felt the pads of fingers press down on his skin, searching the right vein. His hands clenched tighter, forming fists, and he was clenching his jaw so hard he was afraid he would break his teeth. He fought back the urge to bite Rumlow, to set his teeth in the man’s hand and press until he tasted blood.

A moment later, the mean, sharp sting of a needle pierced the side of his neck, and a cold liquid was forced into his bloodstream. The needle was pulled back out, and Steve knew it would not be long before the effects would start to kick in.

He turned his head to Rumlow, who walked around him idly, back towards the kitchen counter to put the needle away. His eyebrows were lowered, blue eyes spitting fire like ice burning cold. "I’m gonna get back at you," Steve said, "You’ll regret doing this to me, you sicko."

There was merely a shrug as answer, and Rumlow leaned against the counter. He was sitting back to watch the show, Steve realized. His eyelids grew heavy, itching with a sudden desire to sleep. He felt his muscles relax, slowly, the tension and anger he tried so desperately to hold on to slipping from his body. The prying eyes of darkness and cruelty were on him still, watching him as though watching a movie. 

Steve swayed, edging off to the side. He used his hand to keep himself up, trying to fight the haze and daze.

"You’re just–" Steve had to suck in a gulp of air, out of breath all of a sudden, "G-gonna watch? Hm?" He hummed a few low tones, not really expecting an answer. He shot once last glare at Rumlow, knowing that in a minute, he would not be able to anymore. "L-leave me o-on…" he sucked in more air. "Kitchen f-floor?"

His arm slid away, unable to keep his _oh so_ heavy body up anymore. He sagged to the floor, feeling the cold stone beneath his cheek, his shoulder and his side. His eyelids fluttered, eyes rolling back into his head. His lips were parted on trembling breaths, hands reaching out uselessly. One day, he was going to get back at Rumlow for this. He was going to rip that bastard apart.

The punishment was not getting knocked out by some anesthetic; that would not even be a punishment, but rather an opportunity for him to get a kind of sleep that he was not granted often. The drug was not meant to take him out, it never brought him to sleep, no. It did something worse than that. It had him lying there, in the middle of the kitchen on the cold floor, curled on his side, unable to move even an inch. His body weighed more than he could lift, so he could not get away. He could not move. He lay there completely immobilized, bared for any threat to take him out. 

And very much aware.

If someone wanted to take advantage of him in every way possible, this was their chance. Steve was floating, but not in a good way. In the way that he felt horribly numb, his arms and legs stinging with pins and needles, until he felt nothing at all. It was so uncomfortable, and he knew that it would take a few hours before he could get back up, and that was what scared him the most. James could have came and went in those few hours, and he wouldn’t even know Steve was here.

A figure crouched down in front of him. "You know, we wouldn’t have to keep doing this, if you just worked along," Rumlow’s voice said, "I’m not enjoying this. I’d rather have you up and about too, but you’re not giving me any choice. At least now I’m sure you’re not going to do any weird stuff tonight."

That was the only reason this happened. It was watching Steve lay on the floor vulnerable and helpless, knowing that he could not get up and do things they did not agree with. Garrett used to just lock him up in his room when they did not want him walking around or when he was being difficult, and somewhere Steve greatly preferred that. 

When Steve would have his bad moments, where they thought he was being unnecessarily difficult about things, Garrett would just put him in his room to let him cool off. Rumlow did so at first, but soon he didn’t think that was enough anymore. No, instead, he decided to have Steve lay on the floor, unable to move, trapped in his mind in the state between sleep and wakefulness. That was a lot worse. He was aware of what happened around him, but he was unable to do anything.

"Because, you know," Rumlow continued, "Now _I_ gotta convince Barnes that everything’s fine. Wouldn’t want you to mess that up, would we? You just stay here." The man then chuckled. "Not that you could get anywhere even if you wanted to."

He was going to get back at Rumlow for this. All of this. He was going to make that asshole _pay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain never really stops for Stevie baby, does it? I promise you NEXT CHAPTER COMES OUR SAVIOR JAMES BARNES. So you have something to look out to ;)


	8. Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me

The cold floor was a torture to his motionless body, the position he had been forced into having his muscles strain to keep him from bending a part of himself into a position he was not supposed to bend into. 

By the time blood began to flow once again through his limbs, the prickle of senses trickling through like syrup through a filter, the sun had dipped below the horizon to give way to a dawning darkness of the night. It could only mean he had lain there for a few hours at least, something he hated to think about, for time was not on his side. Time was the thing that he did not have, it was slipping through his fingers, and choosing the wrong moment could turn into a lifetime regretting that choice. 

Slowly, Steve shifted an arm, twitching his fingers and he frowned as it burned, but he pushed through. He dragged his limb across the floor, bending his knee as to get himself into a position that was more comfortable than the one he was lying in now. It hurt, but at least the drug was starting to wear off. 

With strained gasps, he pushed himself up by propping his elbows beneath his heavy torso, body throbbing and stinging and working against him as though it would kill him if he moved. Every movement cost him more energy than he had left, his vision swimming with effort.

As blue eyes flickered around the dim room, raw and furious, he felt a heavy, cold weight press down on his chest like a boulder. When he lay there, for it must have been the seventh time in two years, it was as though his mind had been stuck in a body that was not his, nor had it been his to control. His mind wanted to leave that lifeless, coarse flesh to as it may, but he never could. Sagging through his arms, he lay back down. He stared into the void, like he remembered doing. He remembered his mind was sluggish, like it had been trying to drag itself through a sea of mud, fogged up so he could barely see, hearing the sound of footsteps, feeling a boot against his back.

They had kicked him, just like Rumlow said they would.

 _"I’m warning you, Rogers. Unless you want to spend an afternoon on the kitchen floor, paralyzed while we spit on you and kick your head like a football, I’d suggest you keep silent and do exactly as I say_."

Not his head, though, they had refrained from giving him the tempting kick against his skull, and he was grateful for that. At least he would not have to endure a bad headache for the rest of the day, another pain for him to deal with. His stomach was like a bottomless pit, deeper than a ravine, emptier than the warehouse in the middle of the day. It rumbled, and Steve curled into himself, rubbing his arms to get himself warm. His head throbbed slightly, a dull headache from the drugs pumped into him, but at least he could move again.

His stomach grumbled loudly, the sound moving up to his own ears and Steve had to think back hard to remember the last time he ate. Lunch with Barnes. That was the last time. Too long ago. A distant memory now. In an attempt to stop the rumbling he grasped his stomach, curling up a little tighter. It would go away, he knew. The hunger would soon lessen, and he would stop feeling it. 

After he regained some more feeling in his arms and legs, he tried to get up to his feet. He quivered, like a newborn animal trying to keep itself up, trembling, nearly tipping over again, but he managed. He managed. With his arms spread at either side, heavier than he remembered them being, he stood. It hurt, the strain of bags of sand tied to his hands and shoulders dragging him down, and he could collapse at any moment, but he kept going. He had to keep moving, keep his blood flowing. Granted, he would burn precious energy, but he had to stay warm. To keep moving.

A pandemonium of sounds seeped through the cracks of the kitchen, indicating a fight held in the main hall, where masses of people swarmed around the circle, shouting, screaming, fists hitting the air and the scent of feral sweat attacking those with sensitive noses. He did not like the fights. Fights… Steve knew what that meant. It meant… where fights were, there were people, and people… no, that was not it. Steve squeezed his eyes shut, trembling on his jelly legs. He knew what it meant. He knew what was going on. Something was with these fights. 

Steve’s eyes snapped open upon realization.

 _James_.

He launched himself forward, tripping over his own feet and crashing against the wall with a dull _thud_ , the force of it spreading throughout his system, signals racing up his spine to his brain where they sat dully. His body throbbed, and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut to regain his balance. _Easy now, calm down. Don’t want to overdo it_. He fought with all his might to keep himself up, blinking furiously to clean his eyes from the haze that blurred his surroundings.

When he finally felt steady again, his organs back in place after they revolted in his abdomen, his shaking hands reached for the door, grabbing the handle tightly and turning it. Nothing. Confusion bled into his eyes, and he tried pulling this time. Nothing. He pushed. Still nothing. It wouldn’t open, it wouldn’t even move. He pulled harder, pushing and turning it left and right. A desperate cry escaped his lips, and he tugged even harder. The door rattled, but it was locked, and still refused to open for him. 

Before Steve even knew what was going on, his eyes stung and the blurry haze formed a drop, trailing down his cheek, and soon another few followed. He did not want to cry, but the flow was difficult to stop. He was so tired, he was in so much pain. He wanted that stupid door to open and he wanted out. James could be right there, right behind that door. And here Steve was, crying pathetically as the door obstructed his way to freedom. He just wanted out, for that _stupid door to open and. Let. Him. Out._

In choked up desperation, he hit his hand against the door, but still it would not open. It refused to budge. Soon, his legs began shaking with fatigue and stress, and it took only a moment for the shattering quake to take over, and he fell to the ground. His fingers clawed at the door, his nails scratched over the smooth surface, but it didn't help. 

The door did not give in, despite his soft noises of pleading and desperation. The door was cold, harsh, just like the men in the warehouse. Never giving Steve what he wanted, or even what he needed. This could not be it, could it? This could not be the end. It wasn’t supposed to be. 

It would not be.

Sucking in a deep, quivering breath, Steve pushed himself off the floor again, and he grabbed the handle firmly, placing his other hand against the wall directly next to it. Then, he yanked. He yanked as hard as he could, forcing himself backwards with all his might. The door creaked, as though screaming in pain that he had to stop. Steve did not.

Gathering another deep breath, Steve bundled up all the strength that he had left, and he yanked his hand back once more. The door gave in. It burst open, wood splintering and the lock groaning, but it was open. Steve had to keep himself up by gripping the side, letting out heavy breaths filled with relief. 

That was step one. Now, he had to find James before Rumlow would find _him_. 

He knew his whole plan hinged on James already being present in the warehouse, which he could very well not be, but Steve took the risk, thinking it to be worth it. If James was not here, Rumlow would surely find him and make sure he could not get out this time. If Rumlow found him before Steve could find James, it was over. He was done. It was the end, and he would maybe never get another chance again. 

He took a deep breath, straying forward, away from the walls that kept him up. He felt his feet protest, breathing was difficult, and his legs were so numb he almost thought his nerves had been burned away. He took tiny steps into the hall that lead to the main room, tipping towards the side as to grab hold of the wall, his hand gliding over the smooth surface. Like that, he covered ground, getting closer to the adrenaline-fueled sounds of a jacked-up crowd.

A little longer. A few more steps. 

Eventually, he reached the main hall, and he saw two men in the circle charge at one another, stomping with hands and feet alike, growling like wild animals caught in a cage and forced to kill the other as the only way to survive. Perhaps it was. Steve would not know. He did not know anything. The only thing he knew was that he had to find James, collapse into the other man’s arms and everything would be alright. He leaned against the wall, both to keep himself out of obvious sight, and to make sure he did not fall. He took another deep breath. 

His eyes scanned the crowd, but then they quickly darted off to the side. James would not be standing between the junkies and addicts, that was not like him. No, Rumlow said James would be sitting in the chair again, so he quickly looked for it. 

Soon, he caught eye of the seats, of the one big chair James had sat in just a few days ago, and he held in his breath. 

It was empty. 

Steve wanted to scream, his lips already parting scream until his lungs had torn and his throat was bleeding, but with pain and agony he forced it back. He wanted to cry his eyes out until he saw nothing at all, and throw himself to the floor to crack open his skull so that he may finally die. Freed from the clutches of a miserable life that did not seem worth living. James wasn’t there; he was gone. 

Perhaps James had already arrived here before, and then left before Steve had finally regained control over his own body, or perhaps he had no intention of coming at all, and all this had been for nothing. The escape attempt, fighting back, spitting in Rumlow’s face. Steve had ruined his own life and future for a foolish dream. Idle wishing and childish nonsense. What was he thinking? That James would save him like some knight on a white horse? 

Pathetic. 

No one was coming for him. 

The shouts and screams of the crowd rung in his ears in distant echoes, like washed out white noises of the crackling radio. His head swum in the fire that blazed through his mind, burning down all hope that he had left. James was not here. He was not coming. It burned through the desire that had been brimming in his chest, glowing like his own small sun, now ripped apart and stomped on, like nothing more than a smoldering cigarette. 

It filled him up with a certain cold, the kind that froze every little part of him. He was alone. All alone. No one was coming for him. A storm howled in his head, blowing around him as to catch him dizzy and disoriented, a kind of fear that refused to ever let up. He was completely and utterly alone, in his mind, his body, his soul, and most of all, entirely alone in the world. No one cared about him. 

He was alone. 

He turned, silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he forced his body to start the trip back to kitchen. He would lie back down on the floor, and he would wait for Rumlow to return. The man would be mad about the door, probably, and Steve would apologize. Maybe, if he apologized often enough, played the game to his hand to make Rumlow think all the fight had truly left him, and Rumlow had somehow ‘succeeded’ (the man liked to feel special in some kind of way), he would not get punished again. 

Maybe, if he promised to be good, they would treat him a little better. He knew that respect meant something else to these man. They would stop hurting him and treating him like trash once he started doing everything they told him to do. They would start treating him like a human being once he started treating them like his masters and rulers. His handlers. Steve always had to earn respect, even the slightest scrap of it, while they thought it was something they themselves were owed immediately and without question. 

It was how it had always been, and Steve asked himself why he had ever bothered fighting it at all. He would end up here anyway. Alone. Defeated. Trying to shake off the lingering effects of the drug. He looked down, at his shoes, new tears forming in his eyes as he recalled the best day of his entire life. New shoes, new experiences. As much food as he wanted, a kind person to talk with. Safeness, kindness. 

_James kissing his forehead, hugging him so tightly, and calling him ‘doll’_.

Steve whined softly, putting his knuckles into his mouth to keep himself from letting out any other noises that could call the attention of passersby. He felt as miserable as could be, and he knew he should just get back to the kitchen to lay down on the floor again, but he kept standing against the wall, kept staring at the empty chair as though he could force James into it by sheer will alone. 

He should probably just go.

"No, mister Barnes, like you were told on the phone, the Captain will not be fighting tonight," Rumlow’s voice said. 

Steve sucked in a gulp of air, nearly choking on it.

Right there, going for the chair, was James Barnes. 

That could not be. 

Steve blinked. Once. Twice.

He was here. He had come after all. _James was here_. 

"You sure?" James asked, and Steve’s eyes drilled holes into the back of James’ coat. He was wearing that military style coat again, the hat already in his hand. The brown, thick locks that curled around his jawline seemed to shimmer in the artificial light of the warehouse, his shoes shiny as ever, and that swagger to his walk as though his left arm was slightly heavier than his right. 

For a moment, Steve realized he had never seen James’ arms before. He shook that thought away. What did that matter?

"That’s a shame," James continued, going for the chair. "I’d kinda been hoping he’d be here."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time," Rumlow said, shrugging a little, "What’s your deal with him anyway? Changed your mind on wanting to have private time with him? I heard you spend some time in the city together."

 _"What?"_ James’ voice sounded sharp now, sudden, and his steps slowed. Steve tensed up, gripping the edge of the wall tightly, holding his breath until his lungs hurt and he had to release it again. "Well, I don’t see how that’s any of your business, but if you must know." James cleared his throat a little, picking up his pace again. "Last time I saw him, he was giving me some disconcerted signals. I was just wondering how he was doing, that is all."

The sheer honesty in his voice send Steve’s heart aflutter. Knowing that James had picked up on his upset behavior last time brought some calmness to his mind. If James already had a suspicion that something was not entirely right, it would be easier to convince him that everything was wrong, and Steve had to get out of here as soon as possible. 

As he stood there, Steve formed a plan in his head. He would wait until Rumlow had walked away, and then he would approach immediately. He would go up to James and… and… he would do something. He did not know what yet, but he would make everything better. He would save himself. He would help himself. He would make sure that he would be alright tomorrow, and not have to fear more pain. 

Hiding against the wall, trying to blink away the fuzziness that made up most of his mind, he kept his eyes fixated solely on James and Rumlow, fingers clenching into fists as he counted the seconds that passed. They were talking a little, James bored and uninterested, and Rumlow fidgety and on his edge as well. 

It could not be an easy thing, trying to convince the head of all crime, the Mafia Boss, that the fighter he so liked was currently lying beaten down and drugged on the kitchen floor. Though Steve was that fighter, and he still hurt, he could not help but let that tiny smile come to his face at the thought. 

Then, finally, Rumlow walked away, disappearing out of sight, and Steve approached. 

Now he had no wall to keep himself up with, no sturdy base to support him as he walked so unsteadily, he was tipping over to one side, dragging his feet, trying so hard to appear somewhat normal. A few more steps, and he was there. Some more agonizing feet and he was good. 

If Rumlow or Rollins caught him now, he knew he only had to expect a bullet in his head or back. 

That did not happen. What _did_ happen, however, was James lifted his head from his hand, back straightening, attention now only on the man who was approaching him from afar, coming in closer every second. Steve wanted to smile, but he did not. He felt good, though, even though his head was too full, his legs burned, his arms tingled like needle pricks and his hip was still sore, he somehow felt good. 

"Steve!" James said, sitting up straight at once, the bored expression slipping from his face, replaced by something else, something happy, "They said you wouldn’t be here tonight." 

"I’m not fighting," Steve answered, once he came to a half beside the chair. He fiddled with his knuckles in his sudden fit of worry. What if James did not want him? What if he had it all wrong? "But I’m here."

James showed him a smile, the kind that made Steve’s stomach do flips, and he edged forward a little. He wanted to come closer. To approach. To be as close as he could. He wanted a hug again. He wanted James’ arms around him. He wanted to be held and cherished, and he wanted the lips on his skin, and he wanted those gentle, sweet words murmured in his ear. He wanted to be right. That James did want him.

As he stood there, getting a bit red in the face at his own thoughts, James’ expression changed from pleasantly surprised to something content and somewhat… sultry? Steve cocked his head to the side curiously, though a tad confused. 

"You know, I’ve had a rough day," James said then, his voice low with a slight purr, "And honestly, all I want right now is a drink, and someone to keep my lap warm…" 

There was a suggestive look to the words, and Steve should have noticed it more, but Steve was swaying on his feet, his head stuffed with cotton and poison, and he was _this close_ to tipping over entirely, and he could not give a damn about what anyone thought or did right now. He saw the look, knew what the words meant, but they had difficulty actually reaching him, so he just stared, fighting himself whether or not to come closer.

James held out his hand, fingers lax and uncurled, and Steve approached, a little too fast to appear casual. There was less hesitance than the first time they did this; having met James in the city gave him trust. And the drug suppressing all the parts of him that cared, left him strangely empty. It had always been like that. He would be pumped full with anesthetics, and then he walked around like a zombie for many hours more. He had no idea if James noticed. He was not even sure he would care if James did.

Before he could start to doze on his feet and collapse to the floor, he let himself be pulled in, and he sat down on James’ thigh, head bobbing slightly in his fatigue. James caught him gently by the biceps, stopping his swaying, thumbs rubbing small circles on his skin, and Steve leaned into the touch. He felt tempted to just dip forward to rest against James’ shoulder, to just lay there. It looked so inviting, so much more comfortable than a thin mattress, but he stopped himself. _Don’t make it weird_.

The crowd howled at the fight, but all that Steve could focus on was the hand that moved from his bicep to his shoulder, in the crook of his neck, and Steve melted as it started massaging the knots in the muscles. He had to bite back a small groan, his body achy after having lain on the stone floor for hours, and the fingers working along his shoulder felt heavenly. The other hand still kept him up, so he did not slip and fall. His eyes may or may not have closed, but when he opened them he saw the crowd hitting their fists in the air, so he must have let them droop.

No matter how hard he fought to keep himself awake, he felt himself getting pulled under. His sleep-deprived eyes stared at the moving mass that was the crowd, chanting at the fighters that tried to bash in one another’s head. Those screams of bad were replaced by something good. Fingers ran slowly through his hair, a soft humming coming from somewhere next to him. It was like a fuzzy blanket wrapped around him, and he leaned into the touch, eager to get more. It felt so nice, so gentle, so _good_ , and he wanted more. Just more. More of the warmth, more of the hands, more of the nice feeling.

It was all so soft and warm, that it was almost hypnotic. There was a little low understanding sound coming from above him, and Steve released his breath. The hand ran through his hair, fingers threading lightly. He closed his eyes, but closing his eyes made the world spin, so he opened them again.

There was another little shushing, comforting noise near Steve’s ear, fingers now gently massaging Steve’s scalp. No one seemed to react to that, as there was no angry shout of Rumlow, nor of Rollins or any other men. The crowd raged on, the fighters were nearing the end, eyes not staring at him, but at the moving mass. It was just him and James now, he supposed. Just them, in their own little bubble. Though that could have been just Steve.

He exhaled again, the tension and stress in his body leaving slowly. He knew this was weird, a level ten kind of weird, but right now, Steve did not care. James’ voice was close to him, somehow, a kind of soothing hum that made him feel protected, and there was some form of comfort close by. He let himself relax into the touch.

There was no punching nor any needles, no drugs, no shouts, no hands around his throat or nails digging into his skin. Though it was supposedly one of the most dangerous men of America who was touching him, a part of Steve could not deny that it felt nice. He did not deny it was nice. It was just that. Nice. It was not hurting him in any way, but quite the opposite.

Everything was still fuzzy, a black edge surrounding his vision and his brain felt numb, but he stopped fighting it, he surrendered to it, even. He focused solely on the moving of James’ fingers along the top of his head, massaging gently just behind his hairline in a way that made Steve want to close his eyes again. Somewhere, he knew he still had something to do. Something important. The very reason he had fought so hard to get her, but it was difficult to remember.

The gentle noises, James’ surprisingly soft voice, and the soothing scratching of his scalp made him sleepy. Even more than he already was. Bit by bit, he felt the tensed parts of his body start to relax, the tension just flowing out of him, and his eyelids were heavy. He couldn’t find a reason to stay awake at the moment, so he let them close. He may already have done that, but he was not entirely sure. 

A lot of things were happening at the moment, it was difficult to tell them all apart. He did not care for anything that happened outside of himself right now, his own little bubble. For a moment he thought that sounded selfish, but then he thought that he deserved something like that. His own selfish moment.

There was a slight movement, almost like a nudge, and it disrupted him, startling him just slightly. He stirred, eyes blinking – he barely remembered ever closing them – and a confused, groggy mumble left his lips. His eyes fluttered open, vision blurry for a moment, before it sharpened and Steve managed to see. 

What he saw, make his gut clench tightly. It was half fear, half surprise. He saw the underside of a face, though from a strange angle. He was lying against something. Something that was solid, but quite comfortable. He pushed himself up, confused as to what happened, because the last thing he remembered was sitting on James’ lap.

To his horror he saw he was still there, but the comfortable, solid surface he had been lying against was James’ chest. He had fallen asleep against James. _On_ _top_ _of_ James. _Again_. He had never been granted permission to go to sleep! If James was not going to kill him for this, Rumlow would. He was not supposed to fall asleep, especially not here, in a position like this. A dazed mumble left his lips, not quite words, but more of a sound.

"Sorry," came a voice, _James’_ voice. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

Steve looked up into James’ eyes, though they were more like pools of a blurry glacier. Shapes and spots and colors danced in front of his eyes, and he knew he needed another good nap to really shake off the effects of the drugging. 

These effects were chosen deliberately, to give him as much discomfort as they could without damaging him all too much. Garrett would never have done any of this, because, in contrary to these buffoons, Garrett actually had a brain, and he had only used the sedative _once_ , when there had been no other choice because Steve was hurting not only everyone around him, but himself as well. 

With a slow shake of his head, Steve tried to clear his vision, feeling confused as to why _James_ expressed guilt for what happened, and why he told Steve that he was sorry. It did not make any sense, as _Steve_ had been the one to fall asleep on top of the other. He hummed something back, sitting tensed all over again.

The hand came back, moving to work the fingers across his other shoulder, but that was a mistake. It was the shoulder Rumlow had let his baton collide with, the one that had dug into the floor, hurting so badly. James squeezed softly, in good intention, but a sharp jolt of pain dragged through his shoulder and he clenched his bottom lip between his teeth, only just able to bite back the cry that threatened to tear from his throat; James noticed. 

It was not so much the words of, _"What’s wrong?"_ as the hands now trying to work down the side of Steve’s sweater jacket that sent his mind on a spin. The jacket was unzipped, so it was easy for James to just work the one side over Steve’s shoulder, exposing skin for he was only wearing a tank top beneath, and Steve closed his eyes. Sleep pulled at him from all sides, and he did not want to see his own shoulder or James’ face. 

It was bruised. He knew that. 

The fingers now grazed the darkened skin, and James let out a soft noise of confusion. "What’s this from?" he asked, gently. 

There came no answer. He did not have one. Did not think he could tell; his tongue was too heavy in his mouth. Steve’s head bobbed forward a little, eyes drooping again and he could not stop it. He felt his body float, swaying in the nonexistent breeze like a leaf from an autumn tree. All brown and crispy and very much dead.

After his sweater had been pulled back over his shoulder, a hand grabbed his chin, not too harshly, but firmly enough to keep him from pulling back. His head was turned a little, but he had no idea what was happening as his eyes were closed.

"Hey, open your eyes, sweetheart," James’ voice said, his tone gentle, "Could you open those pretty eyes for me?"

 _For him_. Okay, Steve wanted to open his eyes for James. With dragging effort, he lifted his lids, peeking out from under his lashes at the other man, wanting nothing more than to close them again and drift off once more. Drifting was nice, floating so steadily, keeping his eyes closed and all that was on his mind was sleep. Not the fights. Not the violence. Not Rumlow. Not Rollins. Just him and the only kind of peace he could have.

"That’s it, doll," James encouraged him softly, and Steve did not even try to deny the way that made his heart flutter, "Just look at me."

He did. He peered into those icy blue eyes, struggling so hard to keep himself awake even though he wanted to sleep so badly. For James. The boss wanted him too. Steve wanted to do that for him. James thought he had pretty eyes, that was nice. _Doll_. That was nice too. No one ever called him pet names like that, so softly, so sweetly. James did. Steve liked that. He liked everything about James; from the gentle touch of his hands, to the kind tone of his voice when he called Steve sweet things. 

Then, James’ voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Did they drug you?"

They did. Steve knew he was not supposed to tell anyone, as Rumlow did not like that, probably because Garrett would be against it, but that had been really easy when all the people that Steve was around were either in on it, or could not care less about him. They did not listen to him, were drunk, high, stoned, completely out of this world and aggressive, handsy, trying to get their hands on him the moment he came closer, so Steve stayed away from them. 

Either they approved of Rumlow drugging him, or they did not consider it important enough to pay attention to.

Only the problem was, that this was James. Charming, handsome, and, to Steve, nice. He was not sure if James was actually being _nice_ to him, or that his bar of friendliness had been lain very low after years of living here, but he thought James was nice. Maybe he wasn’t nice to other people, maybe Steve was special in some kind of way. He did not know. All he knew, was that James had asked a question, and Steve wanted to be honest.

With a slow nod, Steve mumbled, _"Yes."_

Spitting out a harsh, Russian word that was most likely a curse, James let go of Steve’s face. That did take away a large part of Steve’s balance, and he swayed again, tilting over to the side until he lay against James’ shoulder once more. Should he care? Probably, this was James Barnes he was leaning against, not known in the underworld for his friendliness, but rather for his ruthless ways to get rid of those who annoyed him. _Did_ he care? Not at all. He wanted to sleep, and this shoulder was close by and comfortable.

If he could just lay down there, if he could just get comfortable against that and take another quick nap, no one would notice, would they? He would be fine, right? Completely fine. He would be good, amazing, everything peachy. Yeah, that could–

"What the fuck did you do to him?" James harsh voice shook him awake, and it took him a few terrifying seconds to realize James was not talking to him, but to someone else, "Did you bea– _drug_ him?"

"What?" another voice asked, clearly taken aback as well. Rumlow’s voice. _Shit_. Steve pressed himself against James a little more, and he sighed softly when he felt James’ arm curl around him tighter. "No! Listen, he– uh, he just has lots of trouble falling asleep. And he didn’t rest all night, so, well... We made up a bed for him and gave him something to help him fall asleep, he wasn’t even supposed to _be_ here!"

"Then why is he?" James asked, sharply, "He doesn’t look too good."

"Side effects," Rumlow answered, "He gets confused and disoriented. Let me just take him back to his room, he’ll be fine."

" _His_ room?"

Rumlow was quiet for a second too long, and Steve could not help but let the corner of his mouth tick upwards in a lazy smile. _Attaboy_. If James trailed down this path, he would soon see that everything in this warehouse was messed up and he should take Steve away as soon as possible. Preferably right now. James could just wrap his strong arms around Steve’s body, and carry him off. That would be nice.

"The room he sleeps in, sometimes. It’s a guest room." Rumlow sounded slightly nervous, but still able to keep his voice calm. "Look, just let me take him back for a moment. Have him sleep it off. He’ll be on his way home in no time."

Cold fingers curled around his arm, and Steve’s eyes snapped open. He shot up, already trying to yank his arm back as he knew it was not James who grabbed him – James would never grab him so harshly, he just knew it – and he did not want to leave. He was comfortable right where he was, and if he left… the only time he would leave was with James, he would cling to the man like an octopus, and never let go. Only…

James let him leave. 

Rumlow was tugging at his arm, getting him off James’ lap, and though Steve saw worry and suspicion and even some _anger_ splayed all across the man’s face, he did nothing as Rumlow started to pull him away. 

_No_. 

For a moment, Steve debated whether or not to start screaming. To start crying and shouting and throwing his weight around to escape. He should. It would definitely alarm James, and that was good. He didn’t do it, though. He merely struggled weakly as he was dragged away, head whipping around as to look at James, but he ended up crossing eyes with the redheaded woman he had not even noticed was there too. 

Green eyes, cold and calculating, but they seemed to see him. It was difficult to describe, but it felt like this woman _knew_. 

A second later, with a grace to her movements like that of a tiger, she rose from her chair. In two steps, perhaps three (it was hard to see, and she moved so fast Steve blinked in surprise), she planted herself in front of Rumlow like a tree. Her arms were crossed before her chest, her weight set on the leg that was placed behind the other slightly, so that she leaned back calmly, yet her eyes seemed to shoot daggers. 

"Is there a problem, lady?" Rumlow asked, keeping his voice under control, but his hand tightened dangerously around Steve’s arm. 

"I don’t know," the woman answered, her voice smooth, but in the way that ice was smooth, and it was a little deeper than Steve had expected. Her chin tilted up just slightly, something insolent to the look in her eyes that showed a clear lack of respect for the man in front of her. "You tell me."

Rumlow huffed, pulling Steve closer to him just a little. The woman’s eyes flickered from Rumlow to him, and then back at Rumlow again. One of her shoulders edged forward, a tenseness coming to her frame, but not one of fear or worry, on the contrary, it was something much bolder. It was almost as if Steve could see the muscles bulge beneath her clothes, like a predator about to pounce. 

" _Natalia_ ," James said, a warning tone to his voice that blended in with the Russian accent that he had said the name in. The woman narrowed her eyes, staring with such intensity that Rumlow took a step back again. _"Yeshche net._ "

The woman’s head turned James’ way, eyes narrowing at her boss. She shifted her weight again, the fingers of her right hand twitching, curling in to touch her palm, almost as if she wanted to make a fist, but not quite. _"Pochemu net?"_

James sat up straighter, taking a deep breath as he leaned her way, voice dropping to a low rumble. _"Dover'tes' mne, Natalia. Pozhaluista."_

With the curl of her lip, the woman stepped aside, allowing Rumlow to shake his shoulders a little, and then drag Steve along back towards the room. Steve looked back quickly, at the woman and at James, confused and curious as to what just happened, and why it was not still happening. Did they not see that he was in distress? Did they not notice this was not what he wanted? Did they not care?

As he crossed eyes with her, the red-headed woman gave him a dip of her head too obviously a nod to be anything else, and he relaxed slightly, moving along with Rumlow’s pull. The nod had told him something. Something other than words. Her eyes radiated a kind of calmness that made him feel… how did that make him feel? 

Like they knew. 

**X**

Yanking the door open with much more force than needed, Rumlow stood there, stiff with anger, as his hand clenched around Steve’s arm so hard it would most likely bruise. His face got red all over, and it seemed he had difficulty getting out the words. Before Steve could try to say anything, he yanked his arm forward, pushing Steve into the room. Still disoriented, it was difficult to catch his footing, so he crashed to the floor, breath cutting in his throat.

Staring up at Rumlow, Steve felt both strangely calm and panicked. He thought of the woman. Of her eyes that pierced and looked like a book of mysteries. Had he imagined, or did she know? She had seemed to… smart. Intelligent. Like she could take one look at a room and immediately tell what was going on with all the ones inside of it. 

"When I get back, we’ll resume your training," Rumlow said, voice trembling with anger, and Steve shrunk a little, "I thought I would try to be nice, but obviously you don’t give a fuck, so I’ll just be beaten the shit out of you until you comply. I don’t care how long it’ll take, because I’ll enjoy every single minute of it!"

Then, he slammed the door shut, making Steve flinch at the loud sound. 

"Take your best shot, pal," Steve whispered to no one in particular, carefully pulling himself towards the mattress to sit down on it, as it was better than the cold floor for his pulsing skin. The floor that stole all body warmth that Steve already had too little of. The mattress was not much softer, but it was better than nothing. 

A sigh left his mouth, and he groaned slightly as he massaged his hand. His fingers hurt still, straining against the almost healed wounds. He felt the muscles quiver slightly, but it felt better than yesterday. He tried flexing his fingers, then curling them to a fist. No. It still hurt. He slackened, resting his hand on his thigh. A little longer. James was coming, he was sure of it. 

It could only have been a few minutes before he heard it.

The floor trembled, a thrill working through the floor all the way up to his ears, where it rested like a low rumble. Steve lifted his head, tilting it slightly, staring at the door in confusion. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his sight even though it was so dark. He could hear the sound of the fights in the distance, the roaring crowds still calling, but there was something else as well. Footsteps. 

Shaking his head, trying to rid it of the hazy remnants of the drugs, Steve barely even comprehended what was going on; he just stared and blinked slowly, his muscles unable to stop quivering in chemical stress. He only flinched slightly when the door rattled, someone pulling and pushing at the doorknob. The door stayed closed, and Steve thought he heard a low curse, but it could have been the ring in his ears. A low clicking spun up to him, the knob creaking as it was turned and twisted, groaning as though it was in pain.

Vaguely, he noticed that he did not hear things quite as he should hear them. He saw everything behind blurry, stained glass, and he heard everything behind thick walls. The sounds did not catch up with his visuals, only a fraction of a second too late.

There was more confusion when the door then opened, and saw the familiar outline of a familiar man move into the room. A light flicked on, cruelly attacking Steve’s sensitive eyes, and he squeezed them closed, making a small noise of protest. He leaned back against the wall, sagging a little, no energy left to do anything. His head fell forward, eyes closing slowly. His muscles screamed, burning after being held in one position for so long. It was going to hurt even more in a few moments, Steve knew, and he was barely able to fight it. 

Soft hands cupped his cheeks, fingers lying beneath his ears and thumbs on his cheeks. His face was lifted up, but not in the harsh way he remembered Rumlow grabbing his jaw and yanking him up. This was not like that. This was gentle, and careful. A hand stroked the bangs damp with sweat away from his forehead, a voice speaking to him. He only caught a few words.

_"I’m… rescue… out of here."_

_Barnes_.

James Barnes was here to rescue him.

That was… that was good. That was _really_ good. James would come for him, free him, take him away from here, as far as he could. He could go somewhere safe, somewhere where he was wanted. Somewhere without pain and fear, somewhere he would be cared for. Respected. Liked. 

Just as he was about to relax, cold hands took hold of him.

The scream tearing its way free from his throat was muffled quickly by a hand clasped over his mouth, and his kicking and thrashing did nothing to ease the vise-like grip of the arms wrapped around him, pressing him against a firm surface he could not quite place. His adrenaline spiked again, and his heart pounded away in his chest to keep up with his blood flowing through his body at an insane speed.

"Shhh, Steve, it’s alright," James’ familiar voice whispered, _James_ , arms locking around Steve a little tighter, ignoring the weak attempts to escape, slowly removing his hand. "Take it easy, we’ll be out in a minute."

"I–I… don’t..." Steve mumbled, _"Please_."

" _Shhh_ ," James shushed again, "It’s alright. I got you."

Steve went limp against the other, gasping for breath and watching the room spin. In the distant, behind the walls and doors, he could hear the sound of people screaming at one another, clapping and stomping of feet. The shouts and the cries, the fights that were going on. James attempted to lift him up, but Steve could stand. He could stand. He could do this himself… 

"Oh, no, no, no, Steve," James said, pulling him closer, tighter, not allowing him a little bit of slack he could slip through, "You’re not going on by yourself, not when you can barely stay awake, let alone _stand_. You’re safe with me."

Again, Steve squirmed, trying to escape the grasp he was held in, struggling with the last bit of desperation he had left. He could stand, he knew for sure, he did not need help. Well– he _did_ , but he could walk. He could do that _one_ thing himself. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but just as soon as he managed to get upright, his knees buckled. Steve’s vision went blurry as he tried to grab the wall, or anything, really, to stop him from–

Hands caught his waist before he could hit the ground, helping Steve sit back down on the mattress. "S-sorry," Steve stuttered. "I–"

"It’s okay," James murmured, so patiently, "It’s okay, I’ve got you."

He was going to take Steve with him, to wherever the hell he wanted to. And Steve was not quite certain if that was good or bad. It was what he wanted, more than anything, but he was scared. Scared of what would come. Scared of what could happen to him. 

Walking himself was no option; like James said, he could barely even stay awake, let alone muster up enough energy to get himself up. His strength was slipping away, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, and his whole body filled with burning and pulsating sensations he had no words for. 

When James shifted him a little bit on the mattress, Steve let out a sharp breath, keening in pain, trembling weakly.

"What did they do to you?" James whispered, not quietly enough for it to go unheard by Steve, but he gave no reply. He did not do anything but letting out labored breaths and small whimpers.

With a small grunt, James carefully lifted Steve up from the chair, turning him a bit as to have access to his legs so that he could wind his other arm beneath his thighs, gathering Steve into his arms with surprising ease. Steve’s chin was hooked over his shoulder for extra support, one arm dangling down the back of the coat, eyelids fluttering.

James took a few careful steps, testing if he could support the new weight in his arms, frowning when it turned out not to be as heavy as he expected. Then, with surer steps, he carried Steve away, away from the room, away from the fighting that happened a few hallways further, away from the shouts and the cries. Steve was not sure what he was being carried towards, but he had no energy left to fight it; he let it happen. 

All he could focus on was the gentle movement of his body along with the repeated _left-right-left_ of James’ feet beneath him, so steady, something comforting to it. He let his eyes close, allowing himself to be lulled by the motion that could only vaguely be seen as rocking, but he took it with both hands anyway.

"It’ll be alright, Steve," James said, his voice a near whisper.

_Right-left-right._

"I’m getting you out of here."

_Left-right-left._

"Just rest. When you wake up, you’ll feel better, I promise."

 _He promised_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws confetti* James saved Stevie!! Finally, gosh! Here you go, my lovelies, I hope you enjoyed this! 
> 
> I saw someone left me an anon message on Tumblr about the story and I was just💖🥺  
> So I want to remind you that I have a Tumblr, and if anyone here may be interested in takes or deleted scenes or any questions they may have, anything that wasn't clear of the story, they can leave me a message there (anon is possible). I'd LOVE to hear from you! Really, I promise. The Tumblr is: starstruckmyths - and the URL is https://starstruckmyths.tumblr.com/
> 
> Translations:  
> "Yeshche net." – means: "Not yet."  
> "Pochemu net?" – means: "Why not?"  
> "Dover'tes' mne, Natalia. Pozhaluista." – means: "Trust me, Natasha. Please."


	9. You’ve Built Your Walls So High (That No One Can Climb Them)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant thank you to all the people leaving kudos and giving amazing comments, I love each and every one of them, you're amazing💖

Sit still. 

Keep quiet. 

They were playing a game. An old one. The one he remembered playing years ago too. It was the game of chicken; the only game Steve knew how to play, and he knew what the stakes were on losing. So, he knew he had to do what he always did: _don’t lose_.

The tip of the blade traced along the vulnerable skin of his arm, sitting there gently, pressing hard enough to be felt, but not hard enough to draw blood. It made him shiver, afraid for the moment it _would_ hurt, if neither of them pulled out in time. If neither of them wanted to be the chicken. It was a cruel game, even more cruel than it initially looked. No matter what happened, Steve would always be the chicken, unless he let the pain happen to him. 

If Steve pulled out of the game, he was the chicken, and Garrett won, which meant that Steve would get the brunt of it anyway. But if Garrett pulled out of the game, said he’d stop, it was because he was the ‘bigger man’ and he was ‘nice enough to not hurt him for today’. It was nothing new, though the threat of getting hurt had never been this close before. 

Perhaps that was because he had made it personal. He should not have done that. He should have tried to escape like he did every time, swimming or running or even stealing a car. Punching a guard in the face was not that big of a problem, Garrett did not mind much as the guards would often hit back just as hard. What Garrett _did_ mind was when Steve reeled _him_ in. And that was his mistake. Steve had made it personal, and if there was anything that Garrett hated, it was _making something personal_. 

This was his punishment.

Simple as that.

_Twentieth time. Threatening the boss himself. By a lucky shot he had gotten his hands on a knife, and he had threatened Garrett with it._

_It went wrong._

The blade was cold to the touch, and so sharp, an ideal toy for Garrett to play with and torment the trembling, frightened mess that was sitting on the chair. Garrett would raise it, grazing it along Steve’s neck so he would tilt his head back in instinct, edging away from the sharp tip as to save his own throat, his breath catching in his throat and his breathing speeding up just this bit as he tried to get away, to protect himself.

His mouth was dry like a desert, and his head was pounding.

Glassy eyed, he was not quite dozing, but not quite aware either. Skimming the line between, just awake enough to feel the underlying threat of pain that blended in with the rest of his fear and worry, but not enough to offer resistance, to get up and move, to hurl insults at the face of his tormentor. All he could do was sit there, focusing on the hollow sound of his own breathing, the irregular rhythm of his heart that he wished would just give out. Nothing else existed, just the small sounds he let out, the knife skimming so delicately across his skin, and the cold chair against his back.

The tip of the knife ran along his throat again, and he flinched, sucking in a trembling breath as he tilted his head backwards. He looked at the man before him, the hate and disgust pushed away in a deep corner by the replacing emotions of fear and a need to survive. He had no idea what exactly he felt anymore, if he was just scared, if he was bordering into being terrified or that he was numb with a side of fried brain circuit that kept him trembling and completely on edge.

"Are you afraid?" Garrett whispered, holding up the knife before Steve’s face.

He nodded, just this slightly. He should have just tried to steal a car. He should not have threatened Garrett, why the _hell_ had he tried threatening Garrett?!

"There is no reason." Garrett rested the knife on his arm, with the sharp edge on his skin. "I could hurt you with literally anything."

Steve released a sharp breath, clenching his jaw tightly as he let Garrett do whatever he wanted. 

"This escape attempt was a new level of boldness, wasn’t it? Something… _personal_. You dare to use a knife on me, huh?" Garrett asked, curling his upper lip up in disgust, "On _me?_ You think you can just get away with that, you ungrateful runt! You want to use a knife? Huh? I’ll show you how to use a knife."

Instead of being able to fight back, Steve was forced to endure the slice of blade through his skin, and he screamed. He cried out in pain every time the knife poked or prodded him, until small streams of red adorned his body like he was some sort of messed-up piece of art. No one came to help him. No one cared enough to make the pain stop. Nothing else existed anymore, just the pain filled sounds he let out, the knife decorating his skin, and the cold chair against his back.

If he even had a headache before, it was not twice as bad because of the endless stream of tears that rolled down his face, leaving him more empty and burned than before. He could not stop crying, the room around him spinning and he felt nauseous, though he had nothing left in his stomach to throw up. 

"Ain’t you glad you heal fast?" Garrett asked, "Makes it easier for me."

He set the knife onto the skin of Steve’s bicep, pushing it through till drops of blood seeped down, and then he gave a harsh tug and–

Vivid blue eyes snapped open, and Steve gasped for air, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he broke free from the claws of the terror he had been trapped in, adrenaline chasing through his body in a sudden rage to protect himself. His cheeks were wet and his body was bathing in a cold sweat. Something sat twisted around his limbs, trapping him. His heart pounded against his chest. Steve shivered, trembling as though he was an earthquake. The room he was in was entirely dark. No light to be found anywhere.

He did not recognize the surface he was lying on. He did not recognize the scent. Not how it felt beneath his hands, not how it smelled to his sensitive nose, not how something sat twisted and wrapped around him making it impossible to escape. He thrashed around, reaching for something, _anything_. Why was it so damn dark?! Where was the light? The ropes twisted around him even more, and he could not breathe. 

Then, something grabbed him, and he screamed. 

A light was flicked on, but it did not help. He was still cold and his lungs felt so heavy, like there was a tight strap around his chest that kept him from taking normal breaths. The room was too small, to cramped up. Too full.

Steve took a sharp breath through his nose, eyes opening. He wanted to shoot up to a sitting position, to _run run run_ , to stop himself from doing bad things, to warn the others, but all he got was a terrible pang of pain dragging through his skull. A low cry flowed over his lips, and instead of getting up he only managed to roll over to his side a bit, trying to escape the hand that had taken hold of his shoulder. Someone was there. Someone was getting to him. 

It had to be Garrett, there was no one else. Or perhaps it was Rumlow, coming back for another round. To pump him full of drugs, kick him, hit him. To keep going until he had succumbed to them and he was nothing more than an empty shell of a person that did whatever they wanted. He could not let that happen. He wanted it to stop, to escape from here. He needed it to _stop_. He struggled against the firm grip that was trying to keep him down, surprisingly strong even against Steve’s unusual strength. 

"No!" he cried out, fresh tears flowing down his cheeks, "No please! Please don’t hurt me!"

As he thrashed and writhed against the hands, pathetic whimpers escaped his lips. His breathing was going fast and shallow, rushing in and out of his throat before it had even reached his lungs, he began to feel slightly dizzy. His mind was like a dull, heavy haze, a mist hanging in his head, making it hard to focus on what he was doing, like he was lost in an endless grayness. 

It was not even the grip of cruel hands on his arms and shoulders that bothered him. It was that annoying weariness that seemed to make everything so much more difficult than it should have been, exhausting to keep himself up, exhausting to try and escape. He hoped that the fuzziness in his head would let up soon. His muscles felt weak, and there was a cramp in his neck, where Rumlow had pushed the needle in. The hotness surged through his body, heating up his face and his chest, but not in a nice way.

 _"It's okay, Steve. It's alright,"_ the voice shushed, trying to pin Steve’s hands down, _"I'm not going to hurt you."_

He did not believe it. All they ever did was hurt him. Every single one of those men at the warehouse. None of them had even a shred of compassion, no one cared about him enough to stop the cruelty that they subjected him to every single day of his life. For the passed _fourteen_ years. And now they were attacking him in his room too? Or- was he not in his room? He did not recognize any of it, not in his frenzied thrashing. Where was he? How did he get here?

 _"Steve- stop,"_ the voice said, still trying to get a firm hold of him as they struggled across the oddly soft surface, _"I’m– gah–, I’m trying to help you!"_

"No! _Please_ ," Steve cried, thrusting out his hands as to throw in some hits to the enemy’s face, "Please _stop_."

He took deep gulps of air, only to release them in more sobs and hiccups. He was trembling all over, body shaking with fear and stress. He was trembling. He couldn't– couldn't stop. Even as he pulled his hands back to himself and curled up into as small of a ball as as he could, pressing himself into the soft floor, his body shook, it trembled. It was raw, everything, raw tears, raw emotions, raw fear. He couldn't stop... He couldn't stop. It was all too much. He curled even further into himself, trying to protect his head from any incoming blows. 

A bucket of ice water was emptied in his stomach, amplifying his shivering, yet sweat was breaking out and the fire became too much to bear. His breath sounded so painful, straining, the raspy, raw way he was breathing now did not sound good. He was so hot he thought the skin was tearing off his bones, yet he was shivering all over.

The hands came back again, and Steve made himself ready to start fighting once more, to protect himself if needed. They tried to wrap around his chest, to pull him up and backwards a little, but he writhed in the hold, trying to pull himself back, away from the hands, back to safety, out of reach of whomever kept grabbing at him, but the other man was strong, stronger than Steve had expected, and he was pulled backwards against his will and want, his pleas and cries ignored.

 _"It’s okay, Steve, it’s okay. I’m here,"_ the voice said, working too easily around Steve’s weakening struggles as to pull him up again, _"It’s just me. It’s James, remember? I won’t hurt you."_

Shaking his head frantically, Steve ignored the stabbing pulses firing away in his head, like trucks running over his skull, breaking it into a thousand pieces. 

"No, it is. I promise. It’s James. It’s just me sweetheart."

Steve blinked, forcing himself to suck in a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He blinked a few times more, having to restrain himself mentally from kicking and screaming any more at the man holding him loosely now. As he slackened, the man who said he was James moved him again, wrapping him up in strong arms and pressing him against something else. 

A strange scent entered his nose. A whiff of jasmine, weaved into clothing and whatever soft surface he was lying on. He knew that. Almost subconsciously, he turned towards it, curling into the other surface instead of the soft one. This was was warmer. Alive. The first one was a bed, he then realized. Not his thin, bumpy mattress of the storage warehouse, but an actual one. How did he get here? James had taken him away, he knew as much, brought him somewhere else. He was not in danger. It had just been a dream. 

He was with James.

He was not at the warehouse anymore.

"That’s it, sweetheart," James murmured, shifting his arms as to reel in Steve a little closer, wrapping him up in his arms completely, and it felt so _safe_ , so _warm_. "You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you."

"Please don't leave me," Steve choked out then, curling into James’ chest, grasping at whatever part of James he could find. "Please don't leave me here. _Please_."

"I won’t, baby," James said back, his hand rubbing up and down Steve’s back, "I won’t leave you."

"I–I'll do whatever you want." Steve swallowed back the harsh sobs that wrecked his throat trying to get out, to escape his chest. "Just don't leave me here. Please, I _can't_ – I can't do this. I can't do this. Please don’t leave me."

"I won’t, I promise." 

It sounded so honest, as if it could actually be true. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it really _was_ true. Perhaps James was not going to hurt him like all the others had done. He wanted it to be true. He wanted it to be real _so badly_. That he was somewhere completely else instead of the cruel warehouse with his cruel handlers. He sniffled softly, a few more tears dripping down his cheeks before he finally got the feeling he was calming down. 

While he sat there, burrowed into James’ chest, hiding himself from the outside world, James loosened his grip a little, no longer afraid Steve was going to fling himself wherever, or try to kick him away. Slowly, the cries died down, and Steve curled up in James’ embrace. The only few sounds he let out were soft hiccups, and little sniffles as his nose was still running. 

"Oh sweetheart," James sighed then, stroking down Steve’s hair so softly, "That must have been one hell of a nightmare."

Steve said nothing, he just wiggled further into the arms and closed his eyes.

**X**

The sun’s early rays of light filtered through the cracks between the curtains, casting a stripe of sunshine across the bed and the one inside. He was rolled up in the soft duvet that covered his sleeping body, waking up slowly once the light stirred him awake. 

Long eyelashes fluttered, glossed-over blue eyes stared off into the distance, vision unfocused, as though he looked at the world through murky waters. Dark and light danced around like fireflies in the air, darting from one spot to the other until stripes of brightness were drawn across his pupils. The eyes closed, then opened again, a shiver to his frame, though he was warmer than before. Much warmer.

The bright rays dragged him into the waking world, his mind sluggish and thick with cotton. Blearily, he blinked open his eyes and groaned softly at the harsh sunlight that poured in from somewhere, slowly lifting one hand up to rub his eyes, groaning once more at the effort it took, not quite awake just yet. His muscles barely cooperated, and he had trouble even moving. He was not that cold anymore, and he tried to figure out why.

The last thing he remembered was a load of pain, and darkness as he passed out being carried away from the room he had been stuffed in. Then… _nothing_. 

It dipped in, whatever he was lying on, soft wherever he moved. It felt nice. A little squishy. He moved his leg, his arms, his head. He breathed in, the scent of jasmine and something fresh he could not quite place entering his nose, but it was different from anything he knew, yet so familiar. He opened his eyes, and noticed his head was resting on a pillow. An actual pillow. It was big and soft and nice and… there were _two_. He reached out a hand, running it down the smooth plush, a smile working up his lips. 

If this was a dream, it surely was a nice one. Better than the one he had last night, though he remembered very little of it. 

Shifting in the bed, he noticed something was lying around him, on him, covering him. It was a blanket, but not just any ratty old horse blanket, but a real one. A big one. It had a cover and inside and everything, and it was warm. He sat up in bed, an _actual_ bed, and the warm duvet slipped down his chest to lay across his waist. It was a real mattress on a wooden frame, lifted a little above the floor like a bed often did. Steve leaned out over the edge of the bed, lowering his head down the side, hanging there upside down as to take a look. He noticed there was a space large enough for him to fit under, if he ever wanted to. 

Looking around the room, his eyes fell on the large bookcase first. It was filled up with all kinds of books in all sizes, and trinkets in all shapes, big and small. If the bed had not yet tipped him off the bookcases did; this was not his room. More than that, even; he was fairly certain he was nowhere even _near_ his room in the storage warehouse. He was somewhere completely else, far away from all that he knew. 

Steve yawned widely, his jaw crackling softly. He moved his leg, and frowned. Quickly pushing the duvet away, he came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was in his undies, wearing a large shirt that very clearly was not his own. He only owned the one shirt, his tank top, a short that was not as clean and new as the one he was wearing now by far. How he had gotten his hands on this piece of fabric, he did not know, but then again, he had no idea how he got into this room either. His head was a little fuzzy; he had trouble remembering. Maybe–

_"Mrow."_

_What the_ – Steve snapped his head up, moving it left and right as to try and determine where the sound had come from. He found the source a moment later, as a pair of light blue eyes stared back at him. He sat up straighter, quickly scooting back from the furry thing that lay stretched out at the end of the bed. Its tail was slowly curling up and down, fluffy ears twitching slightly. 

"Hi," Steve said quietly, having no idea what else to do. 

_"Mew,"_ the creature replied. It had an extremely long and thick coat, the color white as freshly fallen snow, so that it blended in with the white duvet that hid Steve’s feet. It had a wide head with the ears set far apart, and quite large eyes. A cat. 

When the creature came up, Steve moved back a little more, quickly pulling up his legs and feet just to be certain he would not get hurt. The cat stretched its front legs out, which were fairly short, to be honest, flexing its long, _very sharp_ nails into the duvet, hollowing its back and pushing its behind out, all while opening its mouth impossibly far, as though its head split in two, and baring its sharp fangs in a wide yawn. 

Then, it stretched out its hind legs before coming up to all four, giving itself a good shake to fluff up its coat, and it jumped off the bed in a haze of white fur and quiet paws. The cat trotted towards the door, slipping through the crack with ease. It was not closed. The door was not closed, but rather stood ajar. Steve’s stomach fluttered, at the discovery. Wherever he was, he was not locked up.

Knowing that, Steve slipped out of bed, feet touching the soft, woolly carpet that lay spread across the floor. He giggled, _it tickled!_

As he stood, the shirt fell to his thighs, covering just enough for it to be halfway decent, though he supposed he should not be lifting up his arms wearing this. He took a quick look around the room for his own clothes; his pants, tank top, sweater jacket, but found nothing. He only saw his shoes standing next to the door– the _open_ door. The door that was open. Biting his lip softly, he debated whether or not to take the chance. 

With careful steps, he approached the door, opening it a little further. He peeked around the door, looking down the hallway, but there was not a living soul in sight. Before he went any further, he took a moment to look at himself. To think. 

Obviously, James had taken him here, what else could have happened? The warehouse was a blur, he had no idea what exactly he went through after James came into his room, but he hoped he had done nothing stupid. What if James had passed him to someone else? What if James didn’t want to deal with him, so he was given to someone who _did?_ That was not a very nice thought. On the other hand, when he woke up from that nightmare, James had been there, right?

Lifting up the shirt to expose his waist, in particular, he saw the marks had almost completely disappeared. He ran a finger across the red lines, drawing in a sharp breath when the slight sting hit. He released the fabric of the shirt, then looked at his hand. The white stripes were still there, still visible. A frustrated frown came to his face. He curled his fingers to a ball; it felt alright. It did not exactly _hurt_ , it was more that there was a certain strain to it. 

His shoulder was… well, when he pushed back the short sleeve to expose his shoulder, he saw the bruise had faded for the largest part, though the large, ugly, sickly yellow blotch was not much better. He knew he was lucky he had healed so much already; most bruises took days to even fade a little, but to his liking it was still not fast enough. Applying pressure hurt; Steve dropped his hand back to his side. 

Then, taking a deep breath, he stole out into the hallway. The cat was nowhere to be seen; it must have slipped into another room. The wooden floor of the hallway was cold beneath his toes, but he paid little attention. Far more important was finding out where he was, and what happened. And if he was alone or not. 

The smell of something cooking filled his nose, and he took another deep breath. Before he knew it, his mouth watered, and his stomach clenched as he had not eaten in a while. He recognized that smell as well, but not of the warehouse. No, he recognized it from the lunch with James. Something fresh. Something delicious, though he could not quite put an image to it. Following the smell, he opened a door that led to a kitchen. 

There was a marble kitchen island with chairs around, and a large kitchen counter with a tap, a stove, two microwaves, and an oven. There were lots of cabinets, a cupboard, and a set of towels hung from the wall. Before the stove stood someone, and Steve froze up momentarily. 

It was James. 

Who else could it be, but him? Steve knew no one else who had brown hair curl at his jawline, and such a firm set to his shoulders. Steve released a soft breath, watching James as he blinked slowly, taking in the sight before him for a while before the shame of spying on someone settled in deeply, but he could not help himself. He had to keep looking at James, standing there so easily, so calmly, before a stove top, cooking. 

Then, he swallowed, gathering courage, taking steps into the kitchen as to present himself fully to the man who was already inside. "H-hey," he said, cheeks turning red at the creak in his voice, not anywhere close the nonchalant vibe he had been going for. He hoped it was alright, though, and that the quiver had not been all too clear.

At the sound of his voice, James lifted his head, turning around as to see who had spoken, and when his eyes fell onto Steve, a smile curled around his lips, softening his features to something kind, something trustworthy. Scraping together all courage he had, Steve stepped further into the room, nervously fiddling with the bottom of his shirt, feeling a little self conscious standing there half naked. James did not seem to mind at all. If anything, he looked almost _surprised_ , even. A blend between surprise and another emotion that he could not quite name at the moment. 

For just the one passing second, Steve could see James’ gaze sweeping up and down his body, something soft and fond coming to his eyes, visible even from such a distance, something the entire opposite of threatening, and Steve stepped a little more forward, feeling confident enough to do so. It was difficult to say what exactly had him feeling trusting towards the man, but something was just _there_. 

"Morning," James replied then, that smile still on his face, "How do you feel?"

"Uhm, fine," Steve answered, honestly, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. Then he approached James carefully, watching curiously as the man turned back to the stove top, pushing the contents of the frying pan around with the spatula in his hand. Somewhere, Steve was grateful the eyes were not on him anymore, though he felt… strangely good, having James so close by at the same time, but not being the center of attention.

"Whose shirt is this?"

James smiled wider, glancing up shortly to meet Steve’s eyes. "Mine. Don’t worry, it’s clean. I put your clothes in the wash machine."

 _Why would you do that?_ Steve wondered. It was so… _nice._ So kind. Why would James go through all that trouble, just to do something for a man he had already done so much for? Buying him lunch, walking him around, giving him a lift to the warehouse, saving him from said horrible warehouse… it was… Steve did not know what that was. He tried to grasp the concept of it, but it was difficult. 

"It seemed you liked egg," James said then, "Back at the restaurant, when we had lunch together. What about bacon? Is that alright?"

Steve nodded in response, uncertain, edging forward a little bit more. Bacon was alright. Everything was alright. With a sideways glance, noticing the hesitance, James held out his hand behind him, fingers beckoning, and Steve complied, easily, walking around the kitchen island. James’s hand settled on his arm and up to his shoulder, then it dipped to his shoulder blades, curling around his back as to pull him in a little. It was not a cruel yank, or anything that made him want to dig his heels into the floor. If anything, he moved along quicker than the arm tugged. 

Like that, he was standing at James’ side, leaning into him for as far as he could without appearing too needy, or making it appear too obvious, the broad arm curled around him, lax enough for him to pull away any time he wanted to. He watched the strips of meat sizzle in the frying pan, the pieces of egg beside it in a different pan. It smelled delicious, and Steve wondered if he would be allowed to have any. 

Then, James cleared his throat, and he looked up at the toaster that was standing on the counter, two pieces of bread pushed inside. He seemed to wait for something. Steve wanted as well. A moment later, with a loud _PING_ , the two pieces shot up in the toaster; they were ready. 

"How about you get us two plates and two glasses," James said, "Will ya, doll? They’re over there in the cabinet." 

Steve nodded, happy to do something for James, something to make himself useful, and he turned as to walk away. 

"Good boy," James said. Before Steve really knew what happened, there was a soft smack on his ass, something meant to be encouraging, to get him walking, but Steve felt the tips of his ears burned scolding hot. He snapped his head back towards James, who was calmly minding the eggs and bacon, watching it sizzle in the pan, not looking even the least embarrassed at what just happened. 

Taking a deep breath to calm his pounding heart, Steve pushed through and got those plates, trying not to think about James’ hand on his rear. It was nothing. People probably did this all the time. There were these people at the fights, couples, and they grabbed each others’ butt more often. He and James may not be a couple, but… Steve shook his head. He was not going to overthink it. It meant nothing. 

With hands that trembled the slightest, he reached up to open the cabinet, completely forgetting in his strange stupor that he was wearing only a shirt and underwear, and not any pants. He could feel the shirt creep up as he raised his arms, taking out two ceramic plates first, putting them down on the counter, before he reached up again, further this time, to take out two glasses. He did it all carefully, hell-bend on not dropping _anything_. 

That was, until he felt the hairs in his neck stand up, and he slowed his movements, taking hold of the glasses. He turned his head to the side, and felt his cheeks color beet red when he saw James was stealing glances at him, and he realized that his shirt had rode up his hip. Trying to hide the blush, Steve quickly put the glasses down on the counter, closing the cabinet as quickly as he could, after which he grabbed the plates and glasses, and brought them to the kitchen island that served as a table, making sure to keep his elbows down against his sides.

Sitting down almost was a problem, for a moment, until James gestured at the chair for him, telling him to sit down, and Steve obeyed. 

"Aren’t you cold?" James asked then, putting the strips of bacon and egg on a separate plate. He cast a glance behind him. "Bare feet on a stone floor can be quite chilly."

"I- uhm." A blush creeped to his cheeks. "I couldn’t find my pants."

James frowned a little. "Really? I lay an extra pair on the footrest before the bed for you. Didn’t you see it?"

Steve did not get any more red in the face, instead, his heart felt heavy, pounding a little faster in his chest. He gripped the edges of his seat, staring at the table top as to avoid James’ eyes. He had not seen the pants. Should he have? Had there even been a footrest? He could not remember ever seeing one. Then again: he had not looked around the room much at all, only a little to search for his own clothes. He must have missed it.

Was that reason enough for James to be mad at him? It was a mistake, surely that was clear. He hoped it was. James was different– or, he was _supposed_ to be. Steve hoped he was. Rumlow would have his head for this already, as always. Perhaps James would not. Perhaps James would see it for the mistake it was. Because it _was_. Just a mistake.

Still, Steve could not help but tense up, and hunch into himself a little.

"It’s okay," James said then, "If you want, you can get it now. Or if you don’t, you can get it after breakfast. You hungry?"

Taking the plates with toast, bacon and egg in hand, James turned around to the island and put them down on it. Grabbing some cutlery from the drawer as well, before he put one of the pieces of toast onto Steve’s plate, together with the bacon and egg, giving Steve the signal to eat. Steve did. Carefully. 

James took a carton of milk from the fridge then. "You want some?"

When Steve nodded, James poured some in for the both of them. Then he slid into one of the chairs, digging into his own breakfast as well. The toast was nice. The food was warm. Fresh. It tasted delicious, and Steve did not think he would ever get enough of the feeling of a belly filled with warm, good food. 

Something was going on, though. Steve could see the way James kept throwing glances in his direction, his chest expanding as he drew in breath meant for words, but then said nothing at all. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he did not. Which, in Steve’s experience, could only mean that whatever he had to say, it was not a fun thing. His stomach sank a little, and he chewed slower. James was not going to kick him out after breakfast, would he?

It always began like a spark in his stomach, the fear, the panic, that was how Steve was so good at recognizing it. He knew the signals, and this was one of them. Clenching stomach, heavy heart, sinking feeling. He hoped he was getting himself worked up for nothing, but he could not help but feel that something was going to happen. If something would happen, well… then he was going to fight. Tooth and nail.

"Hey, Steve," James said then, and Steve jumped a little, "Can I talk to you about something?"

James seemed a tad uncomfortable, eyes trying to catch Steve’s, body leaned forward just slightly, which could indicate interest, or almost some kind of protection. Steve often hunched to protect the vital organs, to make himself look smaller. It was instinct. He wondered if James had that instinct as well. 

"Uhm, what about?" Steve asked, rubbing one hand up and down the length of his leg, fingers dragging across the skin. He tried to keep himself from acting afraid. There was no problem here. No threat. _Stop being so afraid_. 

"It may be a bit of a… uhm, _uncomfortable_ subject. I don’t mean to alarm you in any way, and I need you to know this isn’t a reproach or an intervention or anything, okay?" James asked, "If you want to back out of this conversation that’s alright. I just want you to be comfortable."

Those eyes looked at him so carefully, and Steve both melted and felt his stomach turn. It was nice of him, to be so considerate and careful, but Steve was not pathetic– or at least, he _tried_ not to be. Though he had given James little reason to think otherwise, he didn’t like that James thought of him like a scary little baby bird. Like a frightened animal in need of a soft voice. 

James took a soft breath. "And I want you to know I won’t harm you."

Of course. James had said it before. And again, it was in the voice that made Steve feel like James saw him as some sort of poor frightened child in need of comfort and reassurance. It made things difficult, because Steve knew that, in a way, he _was_ nothing more than an abused animal left along the road, but he wanted to be more than that.

"I’m HYDRA’s best fighter," Steve answered, straightening his back as if that would make him feel braver. "You can’t hurt me."

"Maybe," James said, "But fear does what it wants, and fear isn’t rational. Shouldn’t feed it if there’s no need, right?"

Mulling over those words for a moment, Steve was now tapping his fingers on the swath of skin on his thigh as he thought. "I suppose…" he said, speaking slowly, "But you wouldn’t hurt me." 

Steve jutted up his chin, almost as if challenging James to say otherwise, to prove he had no intentions but bad ones for Steve, though he had no idea why he would even do that. With Rumlow, challenging him stood equal to asking to get beaten, but with James… it felt different, somehow.

"I’d never want to." James smiled sadly. The tone of his voice was honest, sincere, and Steve wanted to believe him, "So I hope I never will."

 _I don’t want you to be afraid of me_. James had said that, clear as day, before they went to that restaurant. Steve almost wished James would stop worrying like this. It was sweet and everything nice, but Steve did not know how to handle it. What to say. How to act. It was too much kindness all at once and it was suffocating, how someone else threaded so cautiously around _him_ , instead of him around _them_. It was not normal.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" Steve asked then, "Something I said?" 

"Well, yes." James sighed, making a bit of a helpless gesture with his hands, "I don’t want you to feel attacked or cornered, I just wanted to address a few things that worried me, alright? Some things you said yesterday, when I brought you here."

That made him tense up, muscles bracing for either a hit or to start running. He knew he had to watch his words carefully now, as he remembered nothing of yesterday after James had carried him out of the room. Out of the warehouse. It was a blur, mostly. Distorted images and faraway voices. He remembered a car, he remembered floating and groaning in pain, he remembered hands carding through his hair, and a soft voice speaking softly to him. 

"I was… drugged." Steve shrugged a little. "You shouldn’t listen to that. It’s nonsense."

"Can be," James answered, "But I still want to talk about it. Yesterday, when we arrived here, and I brought you to my room, you were amazed at the bed. You said something along the lines of, ‘Wow, a real bed. They always make me sleep on the floor’." A pause fell, and Steve felt the eyes drilling a hole in his skull. James looked him in the eye, a gaze so piercing that Steve could not look away, even though he wanted to so badly. "Steve, who’s ‘they’, and why do they make you sleep on the floor?"

Drawing in a sharp breath, digging his nails of his other hand into the top of the table, Steve tried to deny it at first, lips parting and closing again, words falling out though they made little sense. "My– uh, my roommates. For fun. Because we lack a bed and sometimes one of us has to sleep on the floor, and I often I volunteer because none of them do."

"Uh-huh," James said, and Steve knew he did not believe it, "I thought you lived alone. During lunch, you gave me that impression. Forgetting to buy food an all."

 _Shit_. 

James remembered.

"Yeah. Yes, uhm." Steve dug his nails into the flesh of his thigh, squeezing so hard it started to hurt, but he did not stop, or remove his hand. He knew he should, but it helped somehow. It stopped the shaking of his voice. It stopped the nervous darting of his eyes. It helped him concentrate. "I can see how you’d think that, but I don’t live alone. My roommates were out that day. So…"

"Ohh, right." James nodded, like he understood, but his eyes told a completely different story, seeming to pry even harder, as though they could pick the truth right out of the head of the young man sitting at the corner of the table. Steve knew he had to watch his next words very carefully. "What are their names?"

_Names._

"Uh." Helplessly, Steve looked off to his left, trying to find something there that could help him. Wall. Floor. Painting. Those were not names at all. He needed other names, better names. _Believable_ names. He tried to think of some. Not Brock Rumlow. Not Jack Rollins. Not Dave. James would notice that, and be even more suspicious. 

"John," Steve said then, lifting his head back up, "John and… Rick."

"John?" James repeated, a little slower, "Like John Garrett?"

Steve quickly shook his head. "No. Like John…" _Last name, he needed last name!_ Steve’s gaze swept around the room. Island. Floor. Wall. Pan. Stove. Marble. _Marble_. "Marble. John Marble."

"John Marble?"

A nod of confirmation. "Yes, John Marble. He’s my roommate. With Rick. Rick Marble. They’re brothers."

"Right." James huffed slightly. _Not good_. He raised his glass to his lips, taking a sip of his milk before putting the glass back down on the table’s surface. Steve was playing with the bottom of his shirt, fiddling with the fabric as to keep his hands busy. Nerves pushed against him like oceans of water, locking his stomach up tight and he was not hungry anymore. He awaited an answer, a reaction, _anything_. 

His teeth were locked together tight, but still Steve managed to let out a slow, controlled breath, attempting to loosen the tensed set of his shoulders. From deep inside his chest, Steve could just feel the tension and anxiety waiting to take over, waiting to come out in a burst and yank him away from the situation. It had always been his protection, but here he doubted it would do much good. It was uncertain whether there was danger or not, because he did not believe James wanted to hurt him. Not really. 

It was just an angry monster in his chest pushing him towards the kind of fear and rage he just did not need right now. 

James then took a deep breath, the sound pulling Steve out of his thoughts immediately. The man leaned forward a little, one hand, the gloved one, on the table. His eyes had lost their fondness, and they were not nearly as gentle anymore. They were hard, and Steve swallowed thickly, fingers now flexing on the table top. 

"I’ll tell you one thing, Steve." His voice had dropped from that friendly tone to something much deeper, something almost _cold_. "I don’t like to be lied to."

For a moment, Steve debated whether or not to hunch and roll over. He supposed that was the best tactic with Rumlow and Garrett, showing his throat and belly, making himself small, vulnerable, so that they could feel powerful. Perhaps it would work with James as well. On the other hand, he had always given his previous handlers too much power. He had just handed it to him without a single word, rolling over every time someone snarled, and maybe he shouldn’t do that anymore. 

Perhaps, the best approach to this snarling dog, was to bark right back. It could not get worse, could it? Out of the storage warehouse, beaten and drugged and told that was going to happen a lot more. He had been tied to a chair, called a wild animal and a dog. Could it really get much worse? Could _James_ make it worse? He had just promised that he would never do Steve harm, and was he a man to break a promise? For a moment, he debated whether the gamble would be worth the risk, but then he made up his mind. Steve took his own deep breath, squaring out his shoulders.

"Well, I’ll tell you another, Barnes," he said back, keeping his voice low as well, "I don’t like to be interrogated."

"This isn’t an interrogation," James replied, and Steve wanted to scoff so badly he almost did it. "I’m just concerned, is all. Just tell me the truth, Steve. That’s all I want." 

Keeping his voice even, though they were breaking at every edge, Steve said, "That _is_ the truth."

It was not what James wanted to hear, clearly. Not what he had been expecting, or even _hoping_ to get from Steve. Releasing a frustrated sigh, James wetted his lips, leaning back a little in his chair. He seemed unsure what to do with his hands for a moment, before he ran it through his brunet locks in a quick swipe. He locked eyes with Steve again. "Look, Steve, I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me the truth."

"You think I need help?" 

"Oh my– are you _kidding_ me?" James sounded about as exasperated as Steve felt, and the fierce tone made him lean away slightly, just to be sure. "You stumbled towards me, drugged out of your mind, with bruises and marks and welts all over your body, looking practically _terrified_ when Rumlow dragged you away. And then I found you locked in some back room, in the pitch dark, sitting on some old mattress, feeling _way_ too cool with me just taking you somewhere, and tonight." James scoffed, shaking his head. "You had a nightmare so bad you kept living it while you were awake. You _begged_ me not to hurt you, do you remember that? You pleaded me to stay, you were scared out of your mind."

"I was _drugged_ ," Steve repeated, frustrated, like it would actually help his case instead of making it worse. "I wasn’t thinking–"

"Why were you drugged in the first place?" James interrupted, and Steve fell quiet. "Why would they do that to you?"

"I don’t know. I didn’t–"

"Steve, come on." Looking almost desperately from his eyes, James leaned forward over the table, hands reaching out just a little, but not enough to get into Steve’s space. "Just tell me the truth, please?"

 _The truth_. Steve was not sure what that was, or where he would even begin. There was just too much to talk about, too much to tell, and Steve thought if he would begin he would start to cry and may never stop again. He had never once told anyone about this. Who was there to tell? Anyone he talked with already knew, and they did not care, were _responsible_ for it, even. So he had never had to truly _face_ what happened to him before, he had never talked about it. Tried to put it into words to explain.

Perhaps he could divide the story into small parts? Smaller chunks that he could get out more easily? He could start with that he never wanted to fight, or that he had been a part of it since he was only twelve years old. Or perhaps he could start with that they beat him, locked him up in a broom closet that was actually his room, because he had nowhere else to go. He did not have a home. He did not have a house. No roommate. But if he told James that, he would have to admit he had just been lying to the man’s face.

Steve licked his lips, "It’s–"

_"Mroow!"_

Out of nowhere, a large, fuzzy ball of white jumped onto the table, going for Steve’s plate in a haze of fur, attacking the bacon with its sharp claws, digging in faster than hungry wolves jumping onto their succumbed prey. Steve took in a sudden intake of breath, and shot back in his chair. He tried to jump up out of it, had not properly estimated the height, and scraped his wrist down the edge of the table. _"Ow!"_

Once again, the fear had found him. It told his legs to go weak, his stomach to lurch and his heart to ache. It was a discomfort in his chest, feeling the urge to run, escape, hide. Humans were scary, yes, they were threatening and loud and they had knives, but animals were different. Animals were so fast, with their claws and fangs and growling noises. Cats were different from dogs, he knew that, but it was not much of a difference. Dogs were loud killers. Cats were silent killers. 

"Alpine!" James scowled, coming up to his feet as he scooped the cat up from the kitchen island, taking the ball of fur in his arms. "No! Bad kitty!"

James looked at him now, as he was standing there with wide eyes, fixated on the beast with talons and teeth. Steve did not like animals. He did not think he even liked the one. They were so sudden, so silent. There was not a single indication about what they were about to do, and they could attack whenever they wanted. He had not even _seen_ the cat enter the room, not heard it, not even noticed it as it had made itself ready to pounce onto the table. 

"Steve, hey," James said, reaching out one hand as he held the cat with his other, "You okay?"

There was no answer but a silent nod, and Steve was gripping his wrist with his hand. It had not hurt, scraping his arm along the edge of the table, but it was sudden. He did not like sudden movements. Sudden noises. Sudden attacks. Every swing at him could be meant to be a punch. Every hand coming in his vicinity could mean getting hit all over his body, or getting grabbed at any place. Every animal that closed in on him could be trained for the very purpose of hunting down another living creature. A creature that could be him. 

Just like the dogs all those years ago. Just like those horrible, terrible hounds that had barked and howled and panted and snarled while baring all their teeth, those beasts that had chased him in near delight, for they loved to hunt. Steve had been their prey, and they had ran like the wind to get him back where he belonged. They had been ordered to do so, to retrieve the lost lam, the wandering sheep. The pet animal that had escaped its cage and made a run for freedom.

For that moment, Steve just stood there, clutching his wrist that did not even hurt that badly, while recalling those awful memories with wide eyes and a fastened pace of breathing. It was like he could still hear the barking on his eardrums, and see the flash of teeth coming for him. He remembered the entire row of bleeding holes in his legs, of dogs latching onto whatever they could find and _tear_. He remembered screaming in pain, trying to kick the animals off of him, trying to protect himself while they growled, snarled and snapped their jaws at him. 

While he stood there in shock, James had turned and moved towards the exit, putting the cat outside before closing the door in front of its nose and circling back towards Steve. He had the worried look on his face, the one with the furrowed eyebrows and the tight set of his jaw, but Steve did not care at the moment. He could not bring himself to care. 

"Did you hurt yourself?"

Even before waiting on an answer, James forced himself into Steve’s space, albeit carefully, which Steve could appreciate a little, and he reached out for the arm that Steve was clutching. He wanted to take it, look at it, touch it. To see what damage had been done, and Steve let him. He saw no reason why not. The cat was gone, the animal that could have hurt him like animals had hurt him in the past was away, and James would not hurt him. 

With gentle movements, James took the back of his wrist and pulled his arm closer, turning it as to take a better look at the inside of his wrist. The skin sported a blush of red from the collision, but there were no injuries at all. No broken skin or any bruising. For a moment, everything seemed to be well, but then James took a better look at his _hand_ , and the sour, burning mix of breakfast and bile pushed up the back of Steve’s throat. It was the wrong arm. Steve had given him the wrong arm!

With his other hand, James gently moved Steve’s fingers apart, which still strained slightly, and looked at the base of his fingers. A frown came to the man’s face, eyebrows knitting together and lines forming deeply in his forehead. The thin cuts placed there by knives had nearly healed in their entirety, but the white stripes that were scars were still clearly visible. Right at the place of his sinews.

"What’s this?"

Steve did not answer. 

"Are these _scars?"_

A hesitant nod, but Steve still did not want to reply to any of the questions; he did not think he could, even if he wanted to. Because he _did_ want to. He just had no idea _how_. 

Steve averted his eyes, taking his time looking at the clean floor of the kitchen instead. He attempted to count the tiles, but quickly gave up, his mind too full and spinning with other things. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, feeling tempted to bite until he tasted blood, but he stopped himself. No hurting. Not anymore. He did not need to do that here.

Somewhere, he expected James to just give up. To either stop asking, stop trying to pry, and ignore Steve from here on, or to get angry and tell Steve he could just keep his secrets if he so badly wanted to. He expected James to feel frustrated, annoyed, that Steve refused to work along with what he wanted. Steve would probably be as well in his situation. After all, James Barnes _was_ the head of the Sevastyanov family, an infamous mobster. Head of the Russian Mafia. He must not be used to people refusing to do what he told them to do.

Neither of the options happened, though.

Instead, James placed a most gentle hand on the side of Steve’s face, fingers lying beneath his ear as his thumb caressed up and down Steve’s cheek, still trying to catch his eyes but with no force at all. It was such a simple gesture, such a small one, but Steve let it anchor him as he sailed through a storm, leaning into James’ hand even when he was not looking back into the man’s eyes, seeking that bit of sunshine while his world was dark and out of focus. 

"It’s alright," James said, his voice nothing but compassionate and soft, "You don’t have to tell me now. Tell me when you’re ready. I’m just here to help, I want you to understand that."

"I understand," Steve whispered back, averting his eyes for a moment or two, before he caught himself, and forced his gaze back to James’ eyes. It was time he got over that fear. Naturally, it would take a long time, but he wanted to look people in the eyes and not be scared. James’ were watching him sharply, yet with so much fondness Steve did not know what to do with himself. He just knew he wanted more of it.

"Could I hug you?" James asked then, almost hesitant, "That is, if you want, of course."

Without a moment to spare, Steve just stepped forward and leaned his weight against James’ chest, waiting for the big, strong arms to wrap around him like they did before. For the arms to hide him from the world, make him feel like it was only them in this entire universe, and nothing else had ever mattered, or would ever matter anymore. And just like that, James did.

It was…

Apart from James, in that moment after lunch, Steve had not been hugged since he set foot in that storage warehouse. His memories of before that time had turned into distorted pictures blurred out by raindrops that fell without mercy. He had not been hugged since the woman of his memories, who he thought to be his mom, had taken him into her arms tightly before father brought him away. To the warehouse. Red hair. Tied to a bun. A beautiful smile. A gentle voice. A mother. _His_ mother.

Steve closed his eyes. Something was so warm, something felt so right, smelt right. He let his body sag against James’, his muscles relaxing.

One arm curled around the small of his back, the other over his shoulders, and Steve pressed his nose to the crook of James’ neck, taking in a scent that was so familiar to him somehow, a feeling long forgotten but relieved once more, all while hoping that this was alright. That he was not screwing it up for himself again. At that moment, everything was right again. At that moment, it was almost like there was nothing wrong with the world, and everything was alright.

Perhaps that feeling, that hope for better times, had been inside him all along, but trapped deep inside, pushed beneath a deep, dark surface by hurting hands and cutting words. He had developed a thick skin for himself, but at the cost of sensitivity and serenity. His soft edges had hardened over the years, _I’m sorry_ became _screw you_ , and slowly but surely he began to feel as though that transformation was permanent.

So gently like only James could, fingers stroked his hair, long fingers running through the strands so soothingly. Then, lips brushed the top of his head, just grazing his temple, and it was… _it was…_

James pressed his lips to Steve’s hair, and it was for real this time, no just a thought in a hazy view filled with sleep. Then, they parted; James looked at him with eyes so soft, and Steve could do nothing but look back, wanting to hold that look, keep it, have it aimed at him all the time for as long as possible. The hand came up again to smooth down the side of his head, through the strands of hair, fingers running along his jawline. 

"Whenever you’re ready," James said, speaking softly, "Okay?"

Steve nodded. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little background on Steve's aversion of knives, he *hates* the damn things. Also, talking turns out to be harder than he thought, where is he even supposed to start? 
> 
> Next chapter will be some checking out of James' house! It's a big house, after all. Lots of rooms, lost of stuff.


	10. No One Ever Told Me That Grief Felt So Like Fear

The ghost of the touch that had roamed the side of his face stayed present for minutes more. The hand had gone already, feet taking a step back for some needed distance, but Steve was unsure. It seemed that he was that a lot these days, like a kind of haze in his head that clouded his thoughts and bugged his mind until he had figured out what he wanted. Only he did not know what he wanted. 

All he knew was that, from the depths of his chest, vibrating through every cell of his being, there was an energy that seemed to spread heat all through his body. The strangest thing was, was that, somehow, he recognized the feeling. Not just from the way James had managed to make him feel before, but from something else. Like an old friend, waving at him from a distance, smiling and laughing so kindly, but Steve could not make out any face. It was almost scary, how it made him feel. Like the ice of his chest, the cold walls that had kept him safe and protected for so long, just melted and began to reveal something he had been looking for, for ages. 

It was like, for the first time in _so_ long, everything in his own, tiny little world began to make sense. He had felt right before, like something just fitted, like two puzzle pieces slotted together, but this was the first time he began to see the picture. It was still blurry, and he could not make out the shapes, but it felt as if he would. There was hope that he would succeed. 

Because of that very feeling, he wished to hold on to that warmth for a long longer. To cling to it as if he were a tiny child hobbling along with someone loved and trusted. It rang a bell of familiarity in his head, that thought, and Steve frowned a little as he tried to figure out what it was. Then he remembered. 

He remembered how he had been walking with his father, his tiny little hand clenched in the rough, much bigger one. He remembered being tugged towards the warehouse, the place of darkness, pain and betrayal. He wished to grasp the hand of James, just to break that image and that feeling, to chase away that which stayed so prominent in his head and replace it with something else, something _better_. His father had taken his hand and led him to hell, what if James could just take his hand and lead him to heaven? 

That was a nice thought.

James opened a door at their right side, and he led Steve to another room, albeit without holding hands. A moment ago, James had fetched Steve the pants he had so gloriously missed when he woke up, and it felt good to be covered up again. The room they entered was the living room, Steve assumed. There was a middle-sized carpet on the floor that looked like it was made out of wool, and painted in the colors and patterns of the inside of a tree trunk. Many uneven circles, hues of brown melting from one into the other. It looked pretty. There were small tables, cabinets, chairs, lamps, and more.

The wooden framed sash windows were propped open and Steve could see the front garden through them. It smelled a lot like pine trees inside the room, and Steve wondered how James had managed to capture that fragrance. It was the smell of a home, a real one. Not Steve’s, necessarily, but someone else’s. Something much better than the smoke, sweat, blood and piss of the warehouse, anyway. And in this house, there was a pungent under-scent type of thing, something Steve could not quite place.

It was dim inside, the light coming through the windows not enough to light up the whole place, but Steve found himself having no trouble seeing everything well, though. He was not sure if it had to do with living most of his life in dark places, or if he should chalk it up to the list of unexplainable things about him, together with his strength, stamina, and his unusual sharp hearing. He could see the pieces of furniture, not as if he had an invisible flashlight, but as if they gave off their own glow in some kind of way.

"And then, there was… light!" James pressed on one of the square buttons on the wall, and Steve heard a soft click. Then, light emerged from the walls, illuminating the room. 

Taken aback a little, Steve tilted his head up to find the light bulbs, cocking his head a little to the side as he did find them, so small yet so bright. It was so different. So… _unlike_ what he was used to. As he took another look around, he noticed the multitude of couches and chairs. They were quite big and plush looking. They seemed soft, as well, but why were there so many of them? What purpose did they serve?

"What are those?" he asked, pointing at the couches. A split second later he was biting his lip, realizing that he had not framed the question right one bit. He knew _what_ they were, he just did not know why they were all here at all. 

James followed the pointed finger, a bit of a frown on his face. "What? You mean the couch? To sit on, of course!"

"Yeah, but… why do you have so many?" Steve asked, hoping he was not being too intrusive. 

With the shrug of his shoulders, James approached towards, taking his sweet time as he walked, not hurried at all. He did not seem angry at the questions in any way, not annoyed or defensive. He treated them like questions, just normal things that anyone would ask, and that he had no trouble with to answer. "Sometimes I get some friends over, and we like our space. So, multiple couches, I guess. Don’t you have couches in your apartment?"

Now it was Steve who shrugged vaguely. "Not really. We have some chairs, but that’s it. Plus some metal bars, but wood’s softer."

As he turned around to face the other man, he noticed James looking at him with raised eyebrows and something of confusion on his face. It was almost as if it took his brain quite some time to imagine not owning a couch. Or perhaps it was not even about that. Perhaps Steve had spoken too soon again, and made another mistake in his hurry to answer. He did not like that he had to watch his words so much again. He had done that so much with Garrett and Rumlow, why was he still doing it here?

There was no need for any explanation, though; James asked nothing in return. Instead, the man walked over at the couch closest by and flopped down on it, motioning for Steve to come as well. With slight hesitancy, Steve complied, and he sat down gingerly on the other side. A sound of surprise almost slipped past his lips when the couch seemed to give in beneath him. It dipped in! He laid his hands down at both sides of his legs, stroking the unusual smooth and soft fabric of the couch. No, they did not have anything like this at the warehouse.

"Whoa," he whispered, smoothing his hand down the surface.

"Is it really that foreign to you?" James asked then, his voice soft. But he that furrow to his eyebrows again, the one that showed worry and a deep thinking that Steve knew would not end well for him. The kind of thinking that poked holes left and right in Steve’s stories of mistruth. The kind of thinking that had him squirming on his seat, wanting to spill every little secret he had.

"What do you mean?"

The other made a bit of a vague gesture with his hands, "Well, the bed, the couch, you act like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a couch or something. I was just wondering, that’s all."

"We don’t have a lot of money. It’s why we have not enough beds and I sleep on the floor. It’s why we don’t have a couch. It’s why I skip meals."

Though it would make sense, James was clearly not content with the answer at all, but Steve merely averted his gaze so that James’ stare was no longer in his vision. If he just refrained from looking at it, it would not exist for that sweet moment of silence between them. He knew he should tell James. Just… not _yet_. He had to find better words to explain what he had been through, or James may not even believe him. He also had to make sure that none of his words would sound accusing, either. 

"That doesn’t sound nice," James said, leaning forward on the couch, further towards Steve, "Makes me wonder how your back isn’t sore all the time."

Steve shrugged again. "I guess I’m just used to it."

 _Wrong answer_. 

Steve did not even attempt to look at James, for he knew the pointed gaze that awaited him would make him feel so vulnerable again, like a fox caught in a cage, or a cat trapped in a corner by a big dog with sharp fangs. A cat that was raising its hackles, with its hair up straight. He did not want to feel that way, because he knew that the urge to lash out was never far away, the instinctual reaction to show his claws and leave a scratch as a warning to stay away. He let his gaze glide through the room, trying to find something else to put his attention to. 

Upon the dresser behind the couch was a framed picture of a family– or, a family? From this distance, he could make out a father, mother and two little boys. Steve was not sure if they were all related, as one of the boys had brown hair like the adults, and the other boy blond. Deciding to take a better look, Steve raised himself from the couch, circling around the piece of furniture as to approach the dresser. 

The four people were smiling. A man and a woman of middle-age, two children standing in front of them, smiling with wide grins and a lot of teeth, though the blond boy was missing his front one. The man had brown hair and a brown beard; the woman had curled brown hair. The brunet child looked somewhat like the man; the same type of neatly combed, brown hair, but the eyes were clearly of the mother. A kind of icy blue. Steve realized that had to be James. The blond boy, however, did not ring any bells. A small kid with a mop of hair on his head, clear blue eyes, and freckles of youth spread around his nose. They seemed happy. 

"Who are they?" Steve asked, pointing at the picture.

"Hm?" James looked up, a bit of a bored expression on his face, but as soon as his eyes found the picture Steve was pointing at, he jumped up, stepping quickly towards the dresser to snatch it away, out of sight. His face turned a mix between pale and red, but not of anger. Shame, perhaps. Embarrassment. Or perhaps even sadness. It was difficult to guess, for Steve had never met much other emotions than anger or annoyance.

"No one," James mumbled, hiding the framed drawing behind his back. He stepped back quickly, somewhat clumsily putting the drawing in a drawer. Steve raised an eyebrow, but did not ask. It was clearly not his place. 

There was a bit of an awkward silence, until James seemed to brighten up all of a sudden, his head now full of other thoughts that were likely much happier than the ones before. He gestured at one of the bookcases against the wall, there were so many, and he approached that same one. "Come here," he said, "There’s a book I really want to show you!"

Steve could do nothing but trail after James, to then wait in silence as the other sought. 

While James dug into the bookcase, searching for something to show Steve, a kind of sweet delight was already present on his face. It was something good. Delight like as if he were a small child hoping to show off something he was proud of. Though the emotion was positive, it made Steve's stomach turn, because he _knew_ that look. He _knew_ that very expression that now sat plastered across James’ face. He knew it, because it was _his own_ . That was _him_. 

That right there was his younger self, desperately looking for any kind of acknowledgement and positive feedback from the man whose only interest with him was to use him. That childish need to come and get a grown-up, a real adult, to look at his achievements and tell him that he did well, otherwise what he had accomplished just did not count. It was not _exactly_ what James was doing here, but something about it came close enough that it made Steve think of it. 

"I could have sworn I put it in here," James mumbled, stepping back to look from a short distance. Steve looked away, clenching and unclenching his hands to fists as he bit down on his lip.

Such a feeling, how would he ever be able to verbalize that? Not his need– his _craving_ for acknowledgement of someone older and more mentally stable than him, but that he had that need in the _first place_ ? Having James to replace that hole in his chest would be the kind of addition to his rescue he never could have hoped for, but he would have to explain the existence of that hole _first_. What if it was rottener than he thought? What if it was just a festering, ugly, black mass that ate away at his insides and could never be cured? How would he explain that to James? 

And would James accept it? 

That was the big question. Would James, after Steve had offered up the deepest parts of his soul to that man, accept him even for all his shortcomings? 

How would he explain the terror he went through, for it was nearly impossible to put into words? He had never needed to explain the creeping void and cold in his head to anyone before, where would he start? He has no idea how to tell about the ice that gathered on his soul, and the cold hand that squeezed his heart when things seemed to go wrong. He had never needed to tell anyone about the beating, the mental torture and how they made him dependent on that pain. How they made him hate but enjoy the fights at the same time, the addiction to adrenaline that had him crawling back to the ring every time, even though he struggled so hard not to. 

And then there were the things that happened to him, but he had never even processed himself. The things he had pushed away in a far, deep corner of his mind and never wanted to address or think about ever again. The things that he _could_ not think about, because it hurt too much or his brain had shoved them in a deep, dark drawer, blurring them out of protection of its own sanity. 

Some things were better left forgotten and discarded, but perhaps he needed those now, those very memories. The things that went further than the pain, the things that could not be explained by describing the situation. It was not as simple as 'he hit me', but much closer to 'he shattered my heart with a betrayal that was utterly expected, but hurt so much all the same'. How could he explain something he did not yet understand himself? 

And then there was the guilt. The weakness that clawed its way through his heart. 

"Oh wait!" James said then, coming up from the floor he had been kneeling on. There was a laugh on his face as he looked at Steve. "I put it in the other bookcase!" 

The man now crossed over to the other bookcase, going to rummage through that one in search of whatever it was that he wished to show his new guest. 

If he told James about what happened to him, the walls that he had so carefully put up would perhaps never protect him again. They would crumble, leaving him exposed to all bad intentions. They would rip him apart from the inside, showing the world just how empty he was, what he had losses and would never find again. His family, his friends, his former life. All things that he was supposed to have, and it were only his lies keeping that fragile wooden shed together. Once the wind would begin to blow a little too hard it would collapse, like a house of cards, and what then? 

It would not matter how strong he thought he was; he had suffered, and he had let himself suffer. He would never be able to take that back again. 

It was not like him to talk, not like that. He had always shoved everything in the closet of his head, just like they of the warehouse had shoved him into that small room. The thought of that room made a shiver crawl down his spine, and he hoped wholeheartedly that James would never do that to him. Not the starving, not the captivity, not the nagging darkness that swallowed him whole when he was crying and pleasing at the door to be let out. The darkness that has no mercy and nipped at his feet like the rats did whenever they felt bold enough. The darkness that had wriggled its way into his head, and refused to leave. The shadows that did not disappear without a source of light. He hoped James could be that light. He needed it. 

"Got it!" James called out then, pulling a book from the case before he went back to show Steve. It was a pretty book, with a hard cover and pretty drawings. 

The letters of the title curled around the paper, almost as if bleeding into the cover with elegant arcs. It seemed to be something of fantasy, the kind of book that told about faraway countries and outlandish stories of heroes and villains. It was a rather thick book, not something you could just read in one night unless you were quite certain about it. It was a somewhat older book, one that had clearly been read many times. 

Steve cocked his head to the side a little, taking in the book that James stretched out towards him, unsure about what James wanted him to do with it. Should he take it? Hold it? Or just look at it and give his opinion? He would have, if he could, but he couldn't. 

He did not know how to read.

"This has always been one of my favorite books," James said, coming to stand beside Steve. He passed the book over, the weight strangely familiar in his hands, pressing it into Steve's hands, turning it around so the back was visible; more words. 

Not just a few either: there were a whole bunch of them, covering more than half the page. Steve licked his lips, his throat dry all of a sudden. He recognized but a few words, the words that said 'a', 'and', 'but' and 'her'. The simple words. There was a... name, he supposed. With a lot of g's and a M, and Steve was so confused. He squinted, narrowed his eyes, moved the book in his hands, tried to read the letters and put them together as his lips moved silently, but still he did not understand. He scratched his head with his free hand, showing something to James as to acknowledge what he had been brought. 

It was what he would have liked to get as a response, too. To be acknowledged. 

"And?" James asked, eagerly, "What do you think?" 

"Yeah," Steve answered, shuffling his feet, "It looks nice." 

Though his answer was short, it seemed to make James content, which was a big relief. Perhaps he could wriggle his way through this without being caught red-handed in a lie. He tried to read the words again, got a bit of a headache, and then gave up. He shook his head, letting out a breath. A gentle hand settled on his back, between his shoulder blades, rubbing soothingly as James leaned towards him. Into his space. Steve sucked in a quiet breath, remembering how others had done that before, with nothing but the intention to hurt him. 

_"Don’t be such an ungrateful bitch,"_ Rumlow had snapped, all those days ago after _that night_ , while he moved closer into Steve’s space, hand itching to reach out and wrap around Steve’s throat, to squeeze the very air out of his lungs, to hurt him and show him that he was nothing more than their fighter, their entertainment. _"On your own in this kind of city, you’d be lying face down in a ditch fucked seven ways to hell if we hadn’t taken you in."_

James did not do that, and Steve hated it that he felt surprised every single time. James had promised him, James was nice, James would never do that. He did not want to seem so ungrateful. He did not want to only take and never give anything, but with the turn of his stomach he realized that he _did_. He was allowed to stay here, which was more than he ever could have hoped for. What could he give James, that would mean anything?

Slowly, he turned his head up at James, to look into those smooth pools of pale blue eyes, that looked back so gently, like they always seemed to do when it was about Steve. Now, it doubled the guilt that weighed heavy in his chest. His lips parted. "I’m sorry."

Confusion bled into James’ gaze, and a minute frown came to the man’s face. "For what?"

Steve looked away, clenching the book in his hands tightly, knuckles turning white because of the firm grip that showed his hesitance and confliction. He was not even sure what he was sorry for. Then, he took a deep breath, straightening his back, feeling the hand still heavily present. "If you don’t want me to be here, I can leave," he said, eventually, keeping his voice steady, "It’s _your_ house, after all. You don’t owe me anything."

The hand climbed from his back to the side of his head, stroking an unruly strand of hair away from Steve’s forehead. "Yes, it _is_ my house," James said back, "And I allow you to stay. So, you can stay, for as long as you want." 

He paused for a moment, running his fingers down to lay on Steve’s shoulder, leaving goosebumps all across Steve’s neck. "You need some air? I can imagine all this is quite overwhelming to you. Would you like to see the garden?"

Air. 

Steve could do with that. 

He gave a nod of his head, and James smiled. The man walked at the soft-looking curtains, pulling them aside to reveal a wall of glass and wooden slats. Now, Steve noticed there were two knobs on it. It was an odd sight, he thought, on such clean glass it almost as if the handles were floating in the air. Which, of course, they were not. James grabbed hold of one of them, pushing it open to let in a calm draft of fresh air. 

In his position in front of the doors, Steve had a view of the surprisingly large-looking backyard. Steve stepped forward, tentatively, setting a few steps across the threshold as to look outside, feeling the breeze on his skin. 

James was smiling at him, "Nice, huh? You can open these doors whenever you want, and then you can easily go in and out whenever you want. It’s no problem at all."

Above the other exit was a sloping eave where one could easily sit underneath, in the grass that lay stretched out in a large lawn, or the couch that had been placed there as well. Another couch. Steve bit his lip in a smile. He took another breath, fiddling a little with the fingers of his hand as he looked at the flowerbeds, the shed in the distance, the grass and the stone tiles, the table and couches. Then, he turned around and looked back at the living room, with the beautiful furniture and the expensive decorations. 

"It– it _is_ quite nice," he agreed, "But James…" he hesitated for a moment, thinking his words through once more, "…I feel uncomfortable asking this from you. It’s not… It’s a lot, you’re doing a lot for me."

"Hush, Steve," James said, his lips curling upwards in something endeared, "Just let me do this for you. After the shit that happened to you at the fight ring, this is the least I could do. Let me help, please? You need a safe place, and I’m offering one. You’re not taking advantage of me in any way, this is my choice."

Feeling confident enough at James’ smile, Steve smiled back. 

Sadly, the ring of James’ phone sadly broke the moment. 

"Hold on," James said, and he held up a finger. He was looking intently at the screen of his phone as he took a few steps back, shooting Steve a most apologetic look, "I’m so sorry, I have to take this. One moment."

With hurried steps, the man disappeared into the house, in the direction of the kitchen, and Steve was still standing in the garden. Struggling a little with his own thoughts, he decided to take this moment for himself, to think. Thinking was nice. He could reevaluate some things, try to adapt the best he could so he would fit in here. So far, acting as if he was more vulnerable than he actually was, had gotten him quite some way down the road. Naturally, he did not _want_ to act so vulnerable, as he felt more at ease when he could show a bit of his own fangs and claws. 

He still had a bunch of uncanned, snide comments in his head, but he was not feeling much for using them. The last thing he wanted was to scare James away, or make him regret taking Steve in. With Rumlow, it had not mattered if, once in a while, he snapped something or showed some defiance, it was the only way to make sure Rumlow would remember that Steve was no one’s pet or slave, that Steve was no one’s property and there was no owning him. To snap at Rumlow was to show that he still had the fight, and he had not rotten away to a pathetic ball of obedience. 

It helped himself, as well. To show some defiance was to show he was still his own, it was a healthy dose of realization that, one day, if he fought hard enough, he could get out of there and start his own life, to have a bright future instead of a short one filled with misery and pain. To talk and to joke and to snide was to show that he was a person beneath all the dirt and layers he had built for himself. It was to remind himself that he would not give up, and he was no one’s dog. Perhaps that was why it was so important that he told James, to finally get that future he had been dreaming of for years.

Speaking of dogs…

Barely even a few minutes after James had left, a loud barking rose up from somewhere beyond his sights. To Steve’s surprise, it sounded horribly familiar. To most people one dog’s bark may sound like another’s, but not to Steve. He knew exactly how to differentiate them, as it had helped him before. It was the dog that had barked so loudly at the warehouse a few days ago, when James had first entered. With his stomach turning itself into a knot, he realized that he had been right. It _was_ James’ dog. Probably a vicious one with large fangs and harsh, red eyes. A black one, with short, pointy ears, and a spiked collar around its muscled neck. 

When a loud howl echoed through the air, Steve flinched a little, feeling so horribly exposed out in the garden. He turned around, quickly walking back towards the glass doors of the dining room. It was probably a big, mean hound. A guard dog that kept away unwanted people from James’ property. It certainly knew how to bark, judging from those whines in the distance, and Steve wished it would just _stop_.

The barking rose in volume, as if it was coming _closer_... 

Steve turned around to look at the shed. He squinted his eyes, then they became twice their original size when something sped across the grass at high speed. It was the dog, and it was bolting it in _his_ direction! Steve’s heart lurched; a gust of adrenaline released into his veins. At once, he jumped to a dead sprint towards the doors, hoping to get inside before the animal caught up on him. If he could just close the doors… dogs could not open doors. The handle was too high, and they didn’t have thumbs.

The loud, sharp barking of the hound emitted from behind him, and Steve’s heart pounded in his chest as his mind urged his legs to move faster. Dogs were fast, born predators, they could catch up with him in no time. He was trained and strong, but they had four paws, and this one was probably made for speed. To grab people with its teeth and rip them to shreds. The dog was going to tear him apart… 

He was not in time to close the doors of the backyard, so instead he weaved around the furniture as he tried to find another door, something to hide on or behind. For a moment, he contemplated climbing onto the bookcase, but he did not want that thing to fall over forward and crush him, so that idea was out of the question. He sped the other way; towards the only room he could think of.

Without any regard for anyone who was already present in the kitchen, Steve busted inside with a loud slam of the door. James jerked up from his stance against the kitchen island, turning around spooked, and he was about to ask what was going on before Steve jumped onto the table, followed by a barking menace. Its ears were flopping about as it jumped up and down before the table, tail wagging so fast it was a blur, yipping and barking and attempting to climb onto the table and Steve moved back, trying to shoo it away.

"Ghost!" James said, rushing around to the other side, "Down! Now!"

The dog whined a little, but it did obey, moving down to sit while it was still staring directly at Steve with those large, dark eyes. Steve swallowed. The dog was not even that big or scary looking, but it was loud and fast and went straight for him, that could not be good. That _was_ not good. Dogs did not like him, and he did not like dogs. They attacked him, barked at him, growled and whined and snarled. He had run away from them, but they caught up and he was screwed.

James walked at the dog, grabbing it by the collar and pulling it back, though not too harshly. Steve wondered how the hell James could just do that without the vicious creature jumping at his throat. Perhaps it liked him, or he was its boss, so it listened to him. Dogs never listened to Steve, they always just growled and snarled, showing their teeth with mean grins. He had tried to make them stop before, but they never would.

"I think she likes you," James said, pulling back the collar again gently, trying to get the dog to come back, but Ghost kept jumping to her hind legs, barking and yipping, pawing in Steve’s direction, and Steve did _not_ think this beast wanted anything but to tear him apart, let alone that it _liked_ him. " _Down_ , Ghost!"

Ghost whined again, sitting down on the floor, but she kept her eyes on Steve, lifting a single paw and stretching it out towards him. James grinned apologetic, lips parting to say something, but his grip slackening on the collar, and Ghost took that opportunity to rip herself loose again. This time, she went straight for the table, going to climb onto the top, but Steve was not having it. He saw the dog’s head bob up and down before the table, teeth flashing, a loud barking, he needed to get away from that, _immediately_. 

He crawled back further, feet slipping on the marble and hands clawing backwards, latching onto the stone– only there was no more stone. No more surface. He grabbed into an empty space with all his might, and his stomach lurched up through his throat when he tipped backwards over the edge.

"Steve!" James cried out, but Steve couldn't get a grip on anything anymore, and he tumbled headfirst down the kitchen island. It was like all the air was forced from his lungs, the fall feeling twice as long as it actually was, every organ of his body coming loose to float up his chest. He crashed against a chair, pulling it down with him as he then crashed onto the floor, slamming his head against the stone tiles and a wave of nausea hit him in the stomach, together with a jolt of blinding pain against his skull. At once, his vision blurred, throat clenching as he prepared to throw up- but the dog was still there.

It whirled around the table, charging forward at the young man who was now lying on the ground, clutching his head in pain. James soon followed, calling out the dog's name but Steve's mind was swimming, completely fogged up and sending harsh throbs down his spine. The dog jumped onto him, yipping in his ear, trying to press its cold, wet nose against his cheek. Steve gave a sound of protest, fearing the fangs in his skin, but the only thing that happened was a wet, slobbery tongue dragging along his face, over and over.

"Ghost, _no!"_ James called out, his voice now a low boom of thunder, and the dog complied, drooping off slowly, with a sad whine coming from its snout.

James practically threw himself down next to Steve, who had come up to a wobbly sitting position, feeling his head with his fingers for any bumps or even blood. There was a sore spot, but no open wound. The pain was receding, having been more shock than actual damage. He had been lucky, and after many years of fighting he had built quite some resistance. Not to mention his secret, biological advantage that he _still_ did not understand, even after all these years. 

"Steve!" James said, hands reaching out to Steve's head, his neck, his shoulders, eyes so worried they may pop out of their sockets. "Oh god, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Steve shook his head carefully, moving one hand to catch James' wandering wrist. "I'm okay," he said, "Just hit m'head a little. Scared of dogs."

As if on cue, Ghost whined again, moving a little closer but keeping her distance, which Steve scrambled back from, and James became more worried. Like a domino, one thing following the other. With somewhat of a spiteful glare, he kept the animal in his sights, afraid it may come at him again. He did not like dogs. It did not matter that this one was yipping and wagging its tail and trying to lick him instead of biting him. It had the fangs. It was fast. It was sudden. It could hurt him. If it could hurt him it was dangerous, and he did not like it.

"Let me get you some ice, can you get up?"

With help from James, Steve came to a wobbly stance on his feet, going to sit on the kitchen chair while still holding his aching head with one hand. James hurried to the freezer to get an ice pack, quick to wrap it in a towel before he came back to Steve. "Here, hold this against your head. Want me to take a look at it?"

"I'm okay," Steve said, pressing the pack against his sore head, "Jus' hurts."

The dog came again, albeit a little calmer this time. Steve just stood there, pressing himself against the kitchen counter, breathing fast through his nose. James reached out, scooping the dog up with ease just like he had done the cat. The look on his face was nothing but sad regret, the corner of his lips curled down. Just the one single day here, and Steve had already been jumped at by two of James’ pets. First the cat, going for the food, and now the dog. For no apparent reason. 

"I’m _so_ sorry, Steve," James said, looking back shamefully, "I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She doesn’t usually act like this, she’s an old dog. She can come off really strong to people she likes." Something of surprise snuck through his voice upon that last statement. He frowned a little, looking down at the panting dog in his arms. "And she likes… you. That’s… _strange_."

James did not elaborate, and Steve did not ask, he just wanted the dog away, and to sit somewhere quietly. After James had put the dog away in some other room, he helped Steve towards the couches in the living room, easing the man down while keeping a careful hand to his head. Steve smiled vaguely, breathing calmly as to try and ease the throbbing of his head. He was glad to have the advantage, the biological thing that made him different from most people. It helped him heal faster, or something. 

"You just keep getting hurt, don’t you?" James asked, the tone of his voice airy, but Steve knew there was more behind it than first met the eye. "I will keep Ghost away from you. She’s an old dog, y’know? Normally she’s just lying around all day, instead of trying to jump strangers."

The smile he showed was a kind one, one with gentleness in its quiet encouragement. It was like a bridge for Steve to cross whenever he felt like, but Steve was not trusting enough to put his full weight onto it, afraid it would collapse, and he would plummet into the freezing waters below. Every little gesture James showed him was like an extended hand, waiting patiently if it would be enough for Steve to feel comfortable enough to tell his own story. For Steve to show his scars, his mess, his fears. 

Even though James was quite so curious, he let Steve hide if so wished, pulling back without shame if it became too much, and Steve did not think James would ever understand just how much that meant to him. Every time Steve thought that James must have had enough, there was only patience, a calm, kind patience Steve could never have hoped to earn, but somehow, he _did_.

It was not like Steve _wanted_ to be this way; he still had his pride. There was a need to be seen as strong, as independent, as proud, even though he had never entirely been any of those things, and he was still on his way to become more than he had always been, the end goal so far out of reach. It would take a lot of time, he knew that, there were no spells to magically fix every little problem that he had been struggling with for years. 

"Hey, uhm, I know I said we could take it easy, but I gotta ask," James spoke up then, turning his head as to look at Steve, "The marks on your hip and stomach. Those welts. They were… bad, to say the least. They seemed… painful. And the bruise on your shoulder. What are they from?"

With a harsh swallow, Steve could _just_ keep in a sigh. He knew trying to deflect would not help his case this time, they would somehow keep circling back to the cause of the bruises and Steve did not know if he had the energy to keep denying everything, not to James. Not to the one who had saved him from his tormentors. He did not even _want_ to keep denying it. It was all so much, so tiresome, and it was so obvious that he would be better off just throwing it all out there for James to see. Though, for some reason, he still refused to speak. 

Instead of an answer, Steve offered a shrug, fumbling with his sleeves with a distant look in his eyes. He knew James expected elaboration, but he had none. He had no explanation, no solution, there was just nothing to say. James was smart, he paid attention, he could pick out the little things in the choppy sentences that would show that Steve was not being truthful, so no matter what Steve would try, he would never come out on top in this scenario. James knew so much already, but he just did not know the full story. 

"Sometimes it gets rough," he said, formulating some kind of vague answer, "I bruise easily."

"Those marks don’t come from any punches, sweetheart, that wasn’t a fist that made it."

There was a moment of silence, and Steve stared off ahead. James was looking at him with those eyes that tried to capture any and every thoughts and secrets that were in Steve’s head, nearly sending mind-rays that Steve would tell him the story that he had been wanting to hear for so long, to _understand_ , to finally know what was going on instead of having to keep guessing, but Steve couldn’t do that. Not yet. But he should. But he couldn’t. 

"I can show you something of mine, first," James said then, sitting up a little, "Something I have to tell you too."

Before Steve could answer, James showed him his hand, the one covered by the glove that he never seemed to take off. The one Steve had been curious about, but never asked because it was not his place. Perhaps there were scars, burns, or spots that James felt ashamed about. Perhaps he missed a finger, or had some kind of deformation. Or perhaps nothing was wrong with his hand, but there was a story behind. 

With slow movements, James pulled at the tips of the glove. A furrow came to his eyebrows, knitted together almost as if the task was strenuous. Steve knew it was not that, it was something different. It was hesitance, something of the kind of showing someone else a secret. A part of him wanted to tell James he did not have to; the other part forbade him to say anything. 

When the glove was off, Steve was met with the sight of shiny metal. A metal hand. Steve eyes locked on the mechanics immediately, having never seen anything like it before. He had seen that hand move, he had felt it on his cheek, on his back. How could it move, when it was just a block of metal? Steve resisted the urge to reach out. "What happened to your hand?"

Right after, he held his breath in silence, waiting to see if James would even respond to the question that had flowed out before he could stop it. His headache was nearly entirely forgotten by now. The muscle in James’ jaw was jumping, and something about his gaze was tight. The man’s Adam's apple bobbed up and down in a hard swallow, and Steve was about to speak up and apologize, to tell him it was alright, to reassure _James_ that he did not have to do anything he did not want to do, when James cleared his throat. 

"I– uh. A long time ago, I got hurt."

Steve was quiet, leaning a little closer against James in the hopes of providing the man some kind of comfort. The kind Steve had always wanted, but never got. "Did bad people do that to you?"

"In a way," James answered, "I fell."

"Does it still hurt?"

The shake of a head. "No, not anymore."

Eyes glued to the perfectly smooth metal, with the lines exactly where they could bend, and the soft whir of cogs and gears that Steve could only now hear, now that it was not dampened by the glove anymore. It seemed to disappear beneath James’ sleeve, and Steve wondered just how far it went. Did it reach to his wrist? His elbow? His bicep? Steve thought of how he had seen James walk, the swagger with his left arm dipping just a little lower than his right, as though something was weighing it down. 

James leaned over a little as well, holding out his hand towards Steve, giving him view of every angle of it. "Would you like to touch it?"

Steve swallowed down his noise of surprise, eyes widening slightly in wonder. "Can– can I?"

With a nod of confirmation, James said, "Yeah, it’s alright."

Having that blessing, Steve reached out his hand towards James’, carefully brushing his fingers against the metal plates that formed the back of James’ hand. It was barely the tips of his fingers at first, but then he applied a little more pressure, the pads of his fingers now trailing down the hand, around the thumb, to the palm. James patiently turned his hand along. To Steve’s surprise, it was not as cold as he expected.

"It’s… warm."

"A friend of mine helped, she’s quite good with machines."

As Steve let his hand slide down the palm of James’ hands to his large fingers, his face all concentrated as he did so, he noticed just how strong the hand was. He could feel the trill of machinery, the minor vibrations beneath the surface, almost like he could with real body parts. There were no muscles to contract, no blood to flow, but this was so much more than that. It was not just different, it was something entirely new, and so mind bogglingly alike yet completely unalike, that it sent a chill down to the bottom of his spine. 

After James had wrapped his right arm around Steve’s frame once more, Steve manipulated one of the fingers, bending and stretching, feeling awe when another moved by itself. Well, not _entirely_ by itself, of course. Somehow, James did that. James did not only let him, but the corner of his mouth curled up in the hint of a smile. Though the both of them were silent, it said a lot, this right here. That James let him touch his hand, the metal, the physical manifestation of one of James’ own traumas. Losing your hand, that must have been awful, and Steve now understood perfectly why James always wore a glove. 

In his own opinion, James did not have to. Even with the metal hand, he was still smart and kind, gentle and friendly. He was still unbelievably caring, so understanding towards others’ problems. It was nice, quite nice, and while Steve played with the metal fingers, he came to a realization that James was showing a vulnerable side of him, to encourage Steve to do as well. He still did not want to tell James, to spill what had happened. 

Only now he knew that he really had to, though.

"I lied," Steve blurted out then, throwing out the words before he would forever hold them back. With a sigh, he dropped both his hands to his lap, away from the metal wonder, refusing to meet James' eyes. He felt the arm, the flesh one, tighten around him, though. Just a little. He was not sure if it was a conscious reaction, and whether James wanted to protect him or hurt him. 

"What y'mean, sugar?" James asked, not at all unfriendly, as he took his own metal hand back, "What did you lie about?"

 _Here goes nothing_ , Steve thought. "My roommates. I don't have any. And the bruising. It didn’t come from a fight. I said that, because I didn't want to tell you what was really going on."

"I figured something like that, to be honest," James gave him a bit of a sheepish toothy grin, that disappeared quickly after. "But Steve, I have to know. What _is_ really going on?"

It was a difficult thing to say. James wanted him to tell everything, to speak up about every little thing that ever happened in the warehouse, and Steve wanted to do that, he really did, but he had no idea where to even start. He did not want to risk angering James, as the main problem here was that James owned the very warehouse Steve had been living in for the past fourteen years. It was important that he told James about the terrible things that had happened there. He just had to frame it carefully, so it would not seem like James' fault.

He thought of the boy with the blue eyes and the scar on his face. How many more kids had suffered in that awful place before him? He owed it to them to do something. For all of them.

"I don't have a home," Steve said, just forcing it out, the corner of his mouth twisting down, "I lived at the warehouse. It's why I don't want you to leave me, because I don't have anywhere to go."

Wringing his hands together, Steve stared at them as they lay in his lap. The cat was out of the bag now, and it was impossible to get it back in. Neither did he really want to. It should be out. Cats should not be trapped in a bag, and neither should his words. It was good they were out, only Steve had no idea where to go from there. 

In response, James let out a small sigh, then he pressed his lips to the crown of Steve's head so gently it was like the brush of a feather, though firm enough that Steve could still feel it. It was surprisingly calming, a sign that there was no anger or disappointment at his words. "I know, baby," James murmured into Steve's golden locks. "I put one and one together when I saw the room and you acted so strangely about your roommates. Did they make you sleep on the floor, Garrett and Rumlow?"

Instead of answering, Steve pressed his head against James' chest, releasing a breath through his nose. Would James be mad? About the lying? It seemed now as though he was not angry at all. I know. James knew all this time? Steve clenched his jaw, gripping into the fabric of James' sweater. If he knew, why did he wait so long? Why wait to tell Steve that he knew all that was said had been a lie? Why not call him out on it right away?

_Because he wants you to tell him._

"What're you afraid of, sweetheart?" James asked, pressing his lips to Steve's head again, the side where his temple sat this time. "You can tell me everything, I promise I won't be mad."

Steve raised an eyebrow, a scoff on his lips. Promises meant truly little to him, though he knew they could mean a whole lot to people who weren't Rumlow or Garrett. Rumlow promised about everything, but lived up to almost nothing. He promised Steve not to hurt him, he promised to get food, he promised Steve would not have to fight this evening, etcetera, etcetera. 'I promise' barely meant anything anymore, though he wanted James' promise to be true.

"I don't give a damn about Rumlow or Garrett, but I won't do anything to them if you're not on board with it. I don't want you to feel like you have to protect them, because you really don't. There’s no need to feel like you owe them anything, or if they still have power over you. Unless..." James drew in a breath, then he moved his arms to pull Steve up a little, and make him look up. Their eyes locked.

"Do they have something on you?" James asked sharply, his eyes searching and full of worry. There was something else as well, something that had the metal arm recalibrating, Steve could hear it whir from his spot on the couch, fingers clenching to a fist. "Do they bear threats or violence on you to make you do things for them? To keep silent?"

Upon realizing what exactly James meant, Steve was quick to shake his head. Blackmail, that was what James was talking about. That was not the case, not entirely. It was more like manipulation, and a matter of housing, food and plain surviving. "No, I promise, it’s not that."

A breath was released, the fingers uncurling, anger seeping away. James seemed relieved at that, relaxing instantly, and he allowed Steve to sag back into his side, head dipping low to rest against James’ collarbone. "What's it then, sugar? What's holdin' you back?"

Swallowing thickly, Steve scraped together as much courage as he had. "I'm afraid you're like them," he admitted, his voice a mere whisper. "I'm afraid of what you will do to me when I say things you don't like, like they did at the warehouse." 

It had been the best to say that, for his own interest too. But it was difficult. Hard. Almost _painful_ , even. But it was for the best, he knew that. James' gaze stayed on him for a moment until Steve’s shoulders hunched under his gaze. Steve looked away then, watching the soft fabric of the couch beneath his fingers. It was a calming sight to see, somehow. Or perhaps he wanted it to be. 

Steve could barely relax, the story was not an easy one to tell at all, not when he had never once told anyone about it, and James' stare certainly did not make it any easier. Steve took a deep breath, the memories of his first arrival at the warehouse slowly seeping into vision. How his father had taken him by the hand and then left him there. The boy with blond hair and the thin scar on his forehead who had fought so hard, but lost anyway. Garrett’s training, the beatings, the fights, the rage. He was unsure what to tell first, what to tell at all. 

"Quite some years ago, when my family was having money troubles, I went to live at the warehouse," Steve said then, already feeling the strain in his heart and the heaviness of his head. His body was telling him to lie down and sleep, sleep for an eternity. Anything to not have to talk. He pushed through, though. He was stronger than that. "It wasn’t my choice. My dad took me there, pawned me off to Garrett. I won the fight, so Garrett took me in. My dad left, and never came back."

Trying to keep up the good and strong appearance, Steve’s lips curled up _oh so_ slightly at the corners in some sort of forced smile, but then directly fell down again a second later, almost as if lying to himself. The typical sign of _‘I’m trying to be fine, but I most definitely am not’_. He pressed his mouth to a thin line, and gave a vague shrug of his shoulders, having no idea what to do with himself, or the hot sting behind his eyes. He did not want to cry. Not already. He knew there was a chance he would, at the end of the story, but he did not want to. 

Though Steve had fallen into silence, James did not ask or push; he waited until Steve was ready to tell more. He had told the beginning, so he wanted to share the end.

"It was Garrett who taught me to fight, said my rage would get me far. He told me winning or losing, and I said I’d win. He trained me, gave me a place to sleep. It was the floor, at first. Not a bed. I haven’t slept in a real bed in years. I didn’t have a real blanket, it got really cold in the winter."

As he said that, a shiver worked through his body at the recalling of cold nights where he curled up into himself, using any piece of fabric for extra warmth, shivering there in the dark, barely able to sleep. Sometimes even hungry, or starving when he had been bad. He remembered the cold winds, the frozen toes, the goosebumps. He remembered his nose hurting, throat scraping, body shaking. All on that cold floor that stole even more of his body heat.

James curled his arm further around him, pulling him in a little as to share his own warmth, something that he seemed to give so freely, and Steve was more than just grateful. He knew no word for something more than grateful, but that was what he was. He curled further against James, trying to push that shiver away, tempted to just close his eyes and sleep again, even though he was not tired. He wanted to fall asleep on James once more, he wanted it so badly, but he had a story to tell.

"They made me fight. Twice a week. I was their main attraction. The Captain of Death. People loved to see me fight, because I never lose. They kept betting on me, hoping someone else would defeat me for once, but that never happened." Steve took a small breath, playing with the bottom of James’ sweater a little, feeling safer at the hand that was trailing up and down his hip in a gentle path. "I was lonely. Didn’t have any friends. There were none. Garrett and Rumlow weren’t nice. Well, Garrett was nicer than Rumlow." 

None of it was quite like he had thought out or imagined in any way. In his head, he had pictured telling the story fully in one sitting, making sense, but this was nothing alike. Forcing the story out slowly and stiffly, unsure how much to tell the man sitting on the couch next to him, each word reminded him just how bad it had been in that place. It reminded him exactly what he had been through, what had been done to him. 

The memories trickled through the gaps in his mind like a small stream, more and more words presenting themselves but there was not enough space to put them. They lay heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth, blocking his throat so it was hard to breathe and swallow. 

"Sometimes, Rumlow would– he would fight dirty when we trained, kicking and hitting me even when I was already on the floor. Just because he wanted to. I think he liked it. I don’t know. He liked hurting me. I think he liked to see my reaction." There was a shrug to Steve’s shoulders, something uncertain, something hesitant, and he could feel James’ hand curl around his hip, tightening his grip. Somewhere, that gave him a sense of comfort. "He hit me with a bottle once. I was bleeding badly after it. He used a belt more often, because that would leave marks. To remind me. He was the handler. _My_ handler."

Steve had always believed that once he would start talking, to a lawyer, police agent, to _anyone_ who would have come to save him from his terrible life at the warehouse, the rest of the story would flow out and come naturally, a long-sought relief, like water breaking through a dam, its volume increasing.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his tongue felt heavier with each word, and it became harder to bear. It was almost as if he would stop talking altogether soon, but he knew he had to go on. He knew he had to continue. He pressed himself further against James, who let out a low, soothing nose near his ear, the hand moving to caress up and down his side again, much like James had done in the warehouse. His words sounded somewhat muffled by his pinched throat, but still clear. It was hard, he hated it, but he kept going. He had to tell someone about this. He had to tell _James_. 

"I was scared, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I let them do it. Rumlow would occasionally refuse to give me food, to show me he was still in power. It’s why I was so hungry, at lunch." Steve looked up at James shortly, who then lifted his other hand to stroke down the side of Steve’s face with the backs of his metal fingers, words on his lips but he waited so patiently. Steve looked away again. "He refused to give me breakfast that day because I left my room early. He also didn’t give me dinner the day before either, I think he was angry that I sat on your lap. He didn’t like that. I was starving. And when I came back..." 

Steve trailed off into silence, unable to finish his sentence. It was too much. He would talk about that later. The lashes of the belt, the screaming, the shouting, the harsh words in his face. How Rumlow beat him, kicked him, threw him into his room with more spitting words, a fire against his head, his body burning and barely able to stand in pain. The tears rolling down his cheeks, the fear and the rage that burned deeply, but was unable to come out. How he tried to escape but failed. How he had been caught and Rumlow hit him again, and then cut his fingers. The thin, white scars were just barely visible now, but they were still there. 

With the shake of his head, Steve said, "I knew then that I wanted to leave. I couldn’t stay anymore. They could do anything they wanted to me, they drugged me, and I knew I had to leave before..." he swallowed thickly. _Before…_

Before they ripped him apart. 

Before they took his innocence. 

Before they _killed_ him. 

Even though the topic was so heavy, and Steve was doing all the talking, the fact that James remained somewhat engaged avoided any awkwardness. It created a kind of safe space that Steve felt comfortable to be in, and somewhere it felt good to talk about it as well. It was painful, and strenuous, and he did not like it one bit, but he had to admit that somewhere, somehow, it felt _right_. It was the thought of being in the center of James’ attention, he supposed. It was knowing that, after James had heard the story, he would be cared for and treated with a gentle respect. 

In his life, he has had many conversations with others in the warehouse before, but they had not nearly gone so fluidly like this one, despite sometimes having known those people for years; they either pretended to listen or just outright told him he should go find someone who actually cared. Steve was often ignored. He only knew few topics to talk about, but when he did, they did not care. They did not want to talk about dreams or stories with him. They did not want to tell him anything about the outside world.

Steve had told James something he had been struggling with for many years, and though James said nothing, waiting for Steve to finish whenever he wanted to, it felt as if James did not judge. He was not angry, or annoyed, or frustrated or bored. He was not pushing Steve away, but rather pulling him in closer, protectively, comfortingly. He was making kind noises, holding Steve as he talked. He seemed genuinely interested in a way, for as far as one could be interested in some else’s traumas. Steve blinked. His breath held for a second or two. _Traumas_. 

That was what it was, right? A trauma? He supposed that it would be best to call the thing out for what it was. The fear, the aggression, the nightmares. He hurt himself when he panicked. His mind went into overdrive when he saw an animal. Everything about his life was one big shit show he had been forced to sit through, doing nothing but watching at the side lines while his life crumbled and he sunk deeper and deeper into a pit of despair. 

"You know, somewhere, I feel like it’s my own fault," Steve said then, biting his lip shortly. He could feel James shift, almost in surprise, and the man already drew in a breath to form his own opinion about the matter, but Steve would not let him. "For years I told myself my father would come back to get me, that it was just temporarily." With something of a scoff, Steve threw his head in his neck, looking up at the ceiling and he let out a laugh, mocking himself and his own stupidity. 

"He was just in it for the money, nothing else. I meant nothing to him, don’t think I ever have. I think he was glad to finally be able to get rid of me. I even did my _best_ ," he added then, with something of disgust sneaking into his voice, taking the minute tremble with it. He looked up at James. "I tried _so hard_ to be the fighter they wanted. I thought that if I was good, if I did what they wanted, they would treat me better. That I would be allowed to leave one day." 

Steve gave a shake of his head, averting his eyes again. "I wasn’t. I tried to escape, but it never ended well." He swallowed heavily around the sting in his eyes, trying to force back the tears that threatened to come out. "They treated me worse and worse, and like some dumb animal I kept coming back for more. They hurt me, used me, made me do things I never wanted to do, and then hurt me more. And like some _pathetic dog_ I crawled back on my knees every time to save my own skin." 

Somewhere, he knew that what he said came from a place of frustration, angry and pent-up sadness that sat deeper than any man could reach, not from a place of truth. He shrugged, more forcefully than he meant, and it sent a throb of pain through his head, his eyes watered, and tears sat closely to the outside air. "I was worth absolutely nothing, but I still rolled over and sat prettily just to get them what they wanted."

"Steve..." James tried, moving his head closer. 

"I had my chance. I had it _right there_ ," Steve choked out, his breath hitching on the stress and agony in his chest, "I could have told you, but I didn’t. I could have stayed in the city, far away, but I didn’t. I went back like a beaten dog, begging for more. Do you know how many times I’ve sat there on my knees, begging for things? To get food, to not get hurt, to be allowed to sleep. All that shit and I _still_ went back. And I–" He broke himself off. The first tear spilled, and it rolled down his cheek. "At that point, it’s clearly my own dumb fault that I got hurt."

Steve choked on the last of his words and fell silent, shutting his eyes tightly, his face pressed against the man beside him to hide the sadness that shone from his very gaze. His breathing hitched, both feeling and sounding a little rough, going in and out faster than when he was running or fighting. This was not a run for freedom, nor a fight. He already had most of his peace, and James would not hurt him. There was nothing but a gentle hand running along his body, caressing so soothingly. 

"That is not your fault, Steve," James said, pressing his lips to Steve’s hair, careful to avoid the sore spot, "None of it is your fault."

James’ face was almost certainly one of worry, and Steve closed his eyes, not wanting to see it anymore. He could not. It would strike the wobbly tower of his head, and it would collapse. James was silent, Steve was not. He was crying. Before he even fully realized it, he was crying. He did not know why. Like that, he came back up, shaking his head, no words leaving his pinched-shut throat. He could not handle it. Not any of this.

A hand touched his shoulder, gently, fingers running up and down. Droplets of cold water slid down Steve’s cheeks, forcing him into a deep coldness as if he had plummeted into arctic waters. A twisted storm that raged inside of him, blending with the cold that gripped his head and squeezed it to pulp.

He had never been one to share his emotions, to tell people how he felt. He would talk with them, share little stories, but he did not share the sadness that cut deeper than any knife. The fear of judgement and shame was imminent, and he could not show himself like that. Allow people to get to him like that. They could hit him, break his skin, spit hateful words to his face, but they would not break his spirit. 

No, he would probably break that all by himself.

"It’s okay," James said in a voice that was quiet, yet determined. The words were repeated, "It’s okay."

And somehow, that made it all even worse. Steve lay back down again, closing his eyes, pulling his arms and legs in towards his body. Perhaps, if he just closed his eyes, he would fall asleep and not have to deal with any of this. Perhaps, if he tried hard enough, he would sink into the darkness that he craved, and not have to drag himself forward, day by day. Perhaps he would stop feeling such pain for so long.

James wrapped him in his arms a little tighter, still murmuring soft reassurances, moving him left to right and again and again, as if rocking him. Steve allowed it to happen. He allowed all of it to happen. It did not matter anymore, James knew. James knew now, and all that Steve could do from that moment was wait and see what James would do with the newfound information. Throw him out, try to ‘fix’ him, get angry, take pity. Anything was possible, really. 

All that Steve knew was that there was a poison in his body, and the only way he could relieve himself for the time being, was to cry. 

And cry he did. 

It was like the times he had been locked into his room, with the lights off and no water or food. Where they had left him to ‘think about what he did’ while it had actually just been a cruel punishment, one they repeated over and over, because they thought it would do no long lasting harm, having no idea that every time they put Steve through that hell, it piled up in his chest, waiting to come out. 

The thing that was different now, though, was that this time, there was someone there to hold him, and gently carry him through the process. It would be alright for now. It _was_ alright, for now. There was no fight, just this. And perhaps he should just let himself get lost in what happened at this moment. So, he did. 

In that moment, James’ embrace kept him from falling apart completely, which, truly, was all he could have hoped for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **E D I T**
> 
> I hope everyone sees this. I've been putting out chapters for a while, and I'm kinda ashamed to say this was all I had for now. I've been busy with other stories, so I've been leaving some slack on this one. Don't get me wrong, I have _many_ more ideas on the shelf and I _do_ want to continue this, but they're just not _ready_ yet. 
> 
> You see, I don't want to just make it up as I go, because from experience, that means the story, the writing, and the style will get worse or boring, and I don't want that to happen. So, I'm putting this story on a short pause, to start planning and writing again what I want for the next few chapters. 
> 
> See you all next time💖
> 
> \-----------------
> 
> The story is out!! (Well, most of it anyway). It took longer to make this chapter because I felt I wasn't really going in the right direction, and I kept getting stuck on portraying Steve's emotions. This is supposed to be an emotional scene with all Steve's troubles showing. And I added James showing his metal arm! I thought it would be important to Steve, because if James shares, he can too, right?
> 
> Also, here's the barking menace called 'Ghost', look how vicious she is! (imagine her a lot older, though), here's a link to Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/263319909435450645/?nic_v1=1aWrAULT9fwEEqYpAo2%2FuVYMgA8RwBPNExvO8wAkQrrPZM5zSyODVmZMUlkvFs5J33


	11. Let Me Carry You (All the Time)

A heavy flow of tears streamed down his cheeks, eyes watery enough for the glassy blue orbs to spill over once, and then many times more. His nose was stuffed as if with cotton, thick with tears and yet running like a waterfall. A sob stuttered past his lips, a sniffle and a hiccup soon following. His hand was cradled against his chest, burning and smarting with a throbbing pain that only seemed to increase the more he sat there. 

The skin around his wrist was swollen, and colored an angry red. It pulsed meanly, every shift and twitch sending a pang of agony up through his arm– through his whole _body_. 

The shushing noises spinning up beside him had a bit of a harsh edge to them, as if they meant to make him be quiet rather than to soothe him and his pain. The hands were nothing better either, pawing forward at his sore arm, creating sparks of fear in Steve’s stomach as he dreaded the enormous jolt of spitting agony that would soon follow after his arm would be taken away. He dreaded the grabbing and the yanking, felt nothing but pain and fear as he sat there, trying to curl to a little ball, but even that hurt. 

Though the shushing was harsh, Steve took it as a kind of comfort in his head anyway, having nothing else to latch himself onto, and it was better than nothing at all. At least he was not yelled at.

As he sat there, he was sobbing with quiet tears and low noises of pain because his wrist hurt like a car had just driven across it. As if heavy tires had slowed as they ran over him, crunching bones and veins, and crushing the whole thing to splinters. Broken. He sucked in a sharp breath when the hands tried to take his arm again, another sob flying past his lips in response, his body trembling like an earthquake in place. 

"Sheesh, kid," Garrett said, putting a cold, wet towel around Steve’s wrist, "You’d think you were mortally wounded by the amount of noise you’re making."

Ignoring the answer he knew had been coming, Steve tried to swallow back a sob, his arm hurting like he had not felt it before, but it was too difficult for his already stressed out body. He could not contain it, in too much worked-up stress and pain to even care. There was no blood, so at least there were no bones sticking out of his skin, but somehow it hurt more than the punches he had received in his time here. Not a hit to his head or punch to his stomach had hurt quite like this was hurting. It was different.

The only thing that brought him some comfort, while Garrett led him to the kitchen to put his arm in a sling, was that he would not have to fight anymore. At least, not for a long time. Flashes of long-past memories zipped by before his eyes, and he thought back of another boy with a sling, grinning at him as if it was considered a win. A boy with brown hair, and a toothy grin that could charm rocks. Steve barely remembered him. All he had left was the image of piercing, steel blue eyes that showed more warmth than most other people Steve knew. 

In return to make up for his wounded state, having been pushed too hard at training, he was allowed more food that night, and when he finished his plate he noticed he was full. He had not felt full in literal _months_. He had not felt full ever since he got here. He thought of his mom and dad, and how they would always have him eat until he was full, even when they only had little. His mom said it would make him grow big and strong, something he had seen as a desirable goal to live up to, something he used to want so badly, something he worked for.

He did not want to be big and strong anymore; he would rather be small and weak, because then maybe they would stop forcing him to fight. Sometimes, he wanted to let himself be punched, just so that he could claim to be wounded, and they would have him retreat from the fights. He thought about many things he could do to himself to make that happen, things that he knew such a young kid should never even consider an option. Bad things. 

It was over. At least for now. That night, Steve slept a little better having been relieved of the dread that came knowing that the next fight was only days away. He lay easy on his thin mattress beneath the thin blanket knowing he would have weeks of rest, he was sure of it.

Five days later, his arm was healed. 

Though still a little sore and sensitive to move around, he found the sling was not needed anymore, and the swelling had disappeared entirely. When he touched his arm, tears no longer welled up in his eyes, for there was only a dull ache left. Fear swooped low in his stomach, because even though he was only a kid, he knew that this was not normal. Nothing about it was. His arm should be hurting like a thunderstrike, it should still be broken and swollen and everything bad. It wasn’t. It had healed. 

Barely a few days of rest in, and he was almost fit enough to be thrown into the ring again.

Naturally, he kept his lips sealed to Garrett about all of it, acting as if even small movements still hurt him, and there was no way he could use his arm. 

Garrett noticed, because of course he did. He was examining Steve’s arm the day after it had healed, whistling between his teeth when he saw swiftly that the bone had grown back together. _"I see your father really wasn’t lying after all,"_ he said, and Steve did not need him to explain what it meant. Steve knew what it meant. Project: Rebirth. Whatever it may be, Steve knew it had something to do with him. Something strange.

Bruises had always faded quicker with him than they did with his best friend. His bones had just never been broken before, so he had always written off his quick healing and thought nothing of it, also because he had been so young. Now, he _did_ notice, and he would rather forget all about it. It was not normal. It made him valuable. It made him _different_. It made him all the better to throw into the ring, because they could keep sending him without having to fear about injuries. 

_He would heal anyway._

**X**

"It has come to my attention that this deal should have been handled weeks ago," James spoke up. His demeanor, as it so looked for all who passed by, was as calm as an early morning sea, but none of the men in the room failed to catch up on the dangerously low undertone of his voice, and the way his eyes were seething with suppressed anger. "Why is Rosalie Carbone _still_ bothering me with phone calls and texts?"

All eyes were on him, many of them shining nervously. None of them dared to show any of what they felt, not even with a furrow of their foreheads or the dipping tug of their lips. James was nothing if not observing, though; one quick look at their eyes and he knew they were nervous. He saw their pupils dart this way and that, staring back at him unsure, a certain gloss blurring across their eyeballs. Though it gave him a certain sense of satisfaction on one hand, on the other he was nothing but annoyed, because none of them answered the question. 

"Well?" James asked, turning his head this way and that to look around the room, leaning forward with his arms on the table, spreading his fingers in a manner meant to be inviting to those who gaped at him with closed mouths. "Anyone?"

"Sir..." one of the council members spoke up then, his voice and stance both careful, "The calling… uhm, why she’s trying to reach you. That is not about the deal..." 

The man seemed even more hesitant to speak now, especially when James arched an eyebrow up at him in question. There was no elaboration, and for around a few seconds it was only confusion coming from James’ side of the table. Then, when he did finally grasp what he had been told, he rolled his eyes up to the heavens, sighed heavily, and dropped his head into his hands, working his fingers against his scalp as a sudden wave of phantom headache hit him. Oh god, not _again_. 

Thinking about how he had kicked the woman off his property brought him some relief; he had met few people who were more annoying than her. Those damn Italian mobsters were too invasive for their own good, like a damn computer virus. 

In the time James had known them, it had not been difficult for him to see they were nothing if not obsessed with Harlem for some godforsaken reason, and James remembered well how his father had kicked them off the playground for their abhorrent behavior. He had not quite ‘kicked’ them off, as he had been civil enough to strike up a deal. There was no need for a gang war, though it had been with a little force when they got snobby and picky. 

"Why hasn’t anyone dealt with that yet?" James snapped, lifting his head back up at the room, "I don’t want to have to keep dealing with her."

"With all due respect, sir," a woman spoke up, pushing her glasses further up her nose, making a real effort to look him in the eye with a respectful nod of her head, "Neither do we. We don’t mean to be in your way, or disobey orders. It’s just she can get quite..." the woman stilled, but James did not even need her to continue to know what she meant. He rubbed his face, shaking his head for a moment as he thought deeply. 

"But the deal is done, right? You got that?"

A few nods went around the room, and that put some sense of relief into his chest. He did not like to be harsh. Being stern and firm was good, it kept them alert and focused on the tasks he gave them, but not so much that they were terrified of him. He had seen what that could do before, and now, with Steve, he knew it better than ever. Steve was the prime example of why abusing those who worked for you was a bad idea, something that would surely come back to bite you in the ass. Abused workers got miserable, spiteful, and functioned less well. 

And on top of that, they were very likely to betray you when given the opportunity. 

Which was the exact reason – along with his set of decent morals – why James made sure to maintain a healthy amount of respect for the people who worked for him. After all, he needed them. He sure as hell was not going to do all that planning and those finances by himself, no way. He would get bored to death and immensely frustrated after _one_ day. That’s what he had them for, his team. Being rational had always clearly worked better; it made it easier to come to a conclusion that would be to the benefit of everyone. 

When they had a win, he celebrated with them. When they showed good work, he gave them a raise. That was how it worked, through rewards and praise for good behavior, not through fear and abuse and threats. They were his people, and he would treat them well. 

God forbid he would end up like _Rumlow_. 

It was just... he was stressed. That seemed to be his problem today. Two emergency meetings, stealing him from the little time off he would have had if not for the lady Carbone, who kept bothering him with stupid phone calls about garlic bread, financial opportunities that he did not want, and fucking _Harlem_. He was really getting sick of it, and his team knew that. They would rather not bother him either, but an emergency was an emergency, and it was still his job. 

"Can’t only be Rosalie calling us that you got me here for, what else is there?" he asked, taking a deep breath. 

"We uh," one of the men said, quickly leafing through his papers. His hands trembled, and suddenly, everyone in the room seemed to tense up, even the slightest noises dampening to the high-pitched ring of silence. Nothing had happened yet, the room was quiet, but it was as though they all knew what was going to happen, and they were nervous about it. 

James squinted his eyes; they better hope it was not disaster number two because he would _hate_ for himself to lose it today and erupt. Because the importance of keeping up a calm yet firm demeanor had been drilled into his head since he was a kid, he seldom lost his posture, but he already had a bad day today, and things were not going quite to his liking. He would hate to come home frustrated, which, of course, Steve would sense immediately. 

The poor thing would spent the whole evening trying to appeal to him in every way he could, like a fucking monkey doing party tricks, and it was just so _heartbreakingly_ sad. James did not think he would be able to handle that today. It made his stomach turn and heart crack on good days, let alone when he made Steve feel unsafe, having to watch the mask come back on, and realizing it far too late because Steve was just so goddamn _good_ at it. 

"There has been a significant drop in the profits of one of our drug and fight rings, sir," the man said, his voice a near whisper. 

That caught James’ attention, and he could feel his heartbeat fasten in his chest. "Which one?"

"The one owned by Brock Rumlow, sir."

His heart did not fasten anymore; instead, it contracted harshly. Like someone had reached an ice cold hand into his chest and grabbed his heart, squeezing it to a bloody pulp as he sat there, staring into the void, turning the words in his head over and over. He took a breath; there was a minute tremble to his lip as he did so. He bit down on it to make it stop, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. His team saw it, and though a few became uneasy, the others showed sympathy, which might have been a little worse. 

The woman sitting closest to him, took the paper from the other guy, and slipped it towards him. There were numbers and letters on it, showing various statements and amounts of money. There was a graph, even. A line that stayed high and steady with good incomes and promises, until it made a sudden drop all the way to the gates of hell. The line dropped so fast and sudden, it was almost laugh-worthy. James did not laugh, though. He did not laugh because he knew exactly what happened. 

_Steve_ happened. 

A sudden thought popped up in his head. A few words and an image somewhere in the back of his mind. It was a minor thing, something more of a wonder than an actual theory. He pulled the paper closer to himself, reading the sentences and following the black line with his finger. Before Steve had left, the line showed small ups and downs, but nothing significant. It stayed around the same amount every month, and that was when James began to wonder.

"I want all data from the profits of Garrett’s fight ring delivered to me this afternoon," James spoke up, lifting his gaze from the paper, settling it on the woman instead.

There was a nod. "Time period?"

"Fifteen years back to today."

Eyebrows rose, but then the woman seemed to understand and she nodded. With the flick of her pencil, she wrote down James’ demand on the piece of paper before her, the scribble soon the only sound in the room apart from breathing. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he lost someone he cared about. Had it really been that long? James could almost not imagine it. He did not want it to be this long. He wanted it to be fresh. The pain had always stayed the same, whether fresh or old, so he was not bothered by it. 

He wanted it to be new, a time before the trail had gone cold.

With something of a sigh, he leaned forward in his chair, listening to how the thing squeaked with the slow effort of his body. His elbows came to rest on the smooth, pristine wood before him, and he looked at the graph once more, as if it would tell him more than the time before. It showed a sudden drop after Steve left, and James could do nothing but wonder if there had been just as sudden of a rise when Steve had joined. 

He had never been told how long Steve had been trapped there, had not asked about it, but in his heart he knew it had been a long time. 

Somewhere he wondered if that time, by any chance, could be fourteen years. Perhaps almost fifteen. Somewhere he almost _wanted_ it to be. Though he was aware of how horrible it would be if Steve had been there for so long, for almost fifteen years as he fought and faded away in a locked broom closet without anything to keep himself warm, and abuse waiting around the corner, it would mean James had found what he had been looking for. 

It would mean James was one step closer to understanding what had happened the day he lost his best friend.

Then, there was a knock, the rapping of knuckles on wood, interrupting the team in the room. James sat up, casting his gaze at the door. At first, he thought it might be some delivery, perhaps a secretary coming to deliver some sort of message. He called out to whoever it was that they could enter, leaning back in his chair as he blew out his cheeks. It better not be bad news. He did not want any more bad news.

The door opened, and someone stepped inside. 

For a fleeting moment of shock, James’ mind froze. Then, barely even a second or two later, the wheels started running again, and he smiled. It had some of the people at the table surprised, their expressions puzzled at the unexpected reaction, until they saw who it was that came in. Not a strange sight at all, considering they _were_ in James’ home, and some of the men in the room had already had the pleasure of meeting him. 

It was a nice surprise, that was for sure. A much wanted one as well. It was no other than Steve who stepped in through the door, his hand lingering on the frame before he dared to come in further, though visibly hesitant to do so. His feet were completely silent on the floor, covered by fuzzy socks, a set of blue ones with tiny dog ears and a dog nose on them. Covering most of his frame, from his fingers to his thighs, sat one of James’ larger hoodies, and beneath that he was wearing sweatpants. Something comfortable. 

There were only a few surprised looks left; most of James’ team was privy to the knowledge that Steve was a friend of James’. The only thing they still looked curiously at was how James seemed to change when Steve was around. The harsh lines just _disappeared_ from his face, the indifference of his eyes slipping away faster than lightning stuck, replaced by a look suggesting that Steve had plucked the stars from the sky and gifted them to him. His usual firm, squared, and domineering stance melted into something much friendlier, one you would expect in a home. 

"Steve, sweetheart," James spoke, holding out his hand invitingly, "What brings you here?"

Feeling more confident at the positive reaction, Steve tippled closer a little faster, trying his hardest not to pay any attention to the council members who were looking at him. He did not care for prying eyes– or at least, he _tried_ not to. He was better than that, he knew. He was used to prying eyes and curious looks, as many had been interested in the Captain he used to be. Instead of paying them attention, he kept his eyes on James’ face, reaching out to grab James’ hand with his own. 

The ease in which Steve approached, giving his hand, made James smile again, and he brought the hand up to his mouth, brushing his lips across the fingers as he swept his thumb across the back. He looked back up into the bright blue eyes, so much more alive ever since the story had come out in stutters and tears. It was as if he was blooming, turning himself towards the sun like a most beautiful sunflower.

"I–" Steve interrupted himself almost immediately, biting his lip with a faint blush on his cheeks. He looked adorably flustered by James’ small gesture, something that did much to ease the tight knot in James’ stomach. "I hope I’m not interrupting..."

"No, sunflower, you’re not interrupting anything." James smiled at him again, his steel blue eyes now so very gentle. "What brings you here?"

Steve chewed on his lip, a little nervous to answer. Truth be told, it was mostly a trivial visit. The problem he had was small in comparison to what James had to deal with for his business. He had many meetings, many things to do, a load of work on his plate, and Steve felt ashamed for interrupting. He had been meaning to text and wait patiently for a reply, or perhaps solve the problem himself, but he remembered all the times James had asked him not to hesitate, and he had felt brave enough to take him up on that.

With that, the prospect of seeing James again was tempting. He had been busy for a few days now, something Steve understood completely, but it did get a little quiet. Granted, it had always been quiet at the warehouse, so he had long learned how to amuse himself for long periods of time, but something in his chest had tugged when he thought about how he did not _have_ to do that anymore. There were other options now. And he had never missed anyone like he missed James, there was no other way about it. 

"It’s nothing big," he answered, cheeks still a little red, "I just… couldn’t find the ibuprofen. And I didn’t want to go through your stuff."

A frown of concern slipped across James’ face, pinching his eyebrows and shining through his eyes. Steve felt a little worse for coming here; James could be so worried about so little. He understood why, but sometimes he wished James would not pay so much attention to him all the time. It was so different from what he was used to, and it was a little scary at times. Steve knew he meant well, and it was so kind, but it was strange to deal with all at once. 

James reached out a hand, gently stroking the back of his fingers along Steve’s cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. A slight shiver went through Steve’s body, not to be seen, but only to be felt when paying close attention, and James was quick to catch it. How could he not? The frown of worry was still there, and James asked, "Is everything well, _kotya?"_

Nervously, Steve’s eyes skirted the room. It seemed everyone present at the table had occupied themselves with something in their proximity, whether it be papers, their phone or a tablet. They were pointedly ignoring the both of them, which Steve was grateful for. He knew none of them felt anything for digging into their boss’ life, even if they were so curious. They would probably not mind this interruption much, but Steve still hated to pull James away from his work, especially for something this unimportant. 

It was just he could not find the ibuprofen, and he felt nothing for going through James’ cabinets. What if searching through the house would not be appreciated? What if he went into a room James would rather not have him go into? What if he accidentally broke something? He would rather be safe than sorry, but still it felt like such a minuscule thing to drag James away for.

"I don’t want to bother you," Steve said quietly, clasping his hands together in front of his stomach in a manner almost protectively as he looked back at James. He gave a small shrug of his shoulders, unsure what to do with himself and how to look or how to stand. Everything felt wrong, as if it was not good enough somehow. A wave of relief hit him when James huffed softly, waving a hand as if to dismiss what Steve had just said. 

"You never bother me," James replied.

 _If only that was true_. Steve’s eyes flickered towards the people in the room once more. They were not looking back, which was a relief, but he still did not like any of this one bit. 

"Have no worry," James told him then, speaking as if he was reading Steve’s mind, "This meeting was coming to an end anyway." 

Barely a second later, the people of the room started packing up their stuff, and it surprised Steve how well they knew their boss and his cues. James had said nearly nothing to indicate they had to leave, yet they gathered their things and made their way out. Papers were put into neat piles, phones put into bags, laptops closed and slipped into their cases. The team shuffled out of their seats, feet patting the floor, deep breaths taken. There is a creak of zippers, well-filled backpacks lifted across shoulders.

James watched them move with a sharp gaze, catching the eye of one of the women, and James told her, "I want them this afternoon."

When the door closed behind the last one to step out, Steve released a heavy breath. He licked his bottom lip, pulling it in to chew a little on it. He felt even worse now, not better. The echo in his head became worse, nearly changing into a nasty throb. He did not know exactly where the headache had come from, but he thought it had to do with the dream he just had. It had not been a good dream, but rather one of times he did not want to remember. Times of pain. –

"You didn’t have to do that, James," Steve sighed, twitching on his feet, "I don’t want to keep you away from your work."

A small pout came to James’ lips, and he took hold of one of Steve’s hands to tug him in closer. With careful movements, his other hand coming to settle on Steve’s waist, he pulled the other into his lap, settling him down comfortably. There was a hand softly trailing along his hip, the other coming up to stroke a thumb across his cheek. The stress that had been on James’ face when he came in seemed to have slipped away, now replaced with nothing but gentle adoration. 

"Oh sweetheart," James said, probably entirely aware of how it made Steve feel a little bit better about himself every time, not to mention the way Steve felt when James sat him down on his lap so gently. "If you don’t feel well, what kind of monster would I be to ignore it? Tell me, what’s got you up then, hm?"

"Headache," Steve replied, giving a careful, upwards tick of his shoulders. The look James was giving him formed his heart into a melted puddle of sugar instead of a strong, beating muscle, and he felt so special knowing that exact look was meant only for him, and no one else. "’m not feeling too well. A little warm? I don’t know. I thought ibuprofen would help."

The hand slipped up to the back of his neck, tugging his head down a little and Steve moved along. James pressed his lips to his forehead, releasing a soft breath through his nose, and a hum of displeasure thrilled up through his throat. He pulled back again, the tip of his nose brushed Steve’s as he made his way. Through their proximity, a puff of breath ghosting around his lips, making Steve want to… He was not sure what it made him want to do, he just knew he _wanted_.

Whether it was intentional or not, being held just like this had Steve working to resist the urge to curl up on James’ lap and press himself even closer to get more of the warmth, more of the embrace and the strong arms that could hold him so gently. He knew he was allowed. He was always allowed, he had been told so.

"You feeling sick, sweets?" James asked, the little frown displaced on his face, eyes filled with worry, "You’re definitely warm, maybe a little feverish. Should’a told me earlier, I could have tucked you into bed with a hot water bottle. Could’a stayed with you. Take care of you." A kind smile curled James’ mouth up at the corners, giving his face a little glow that Steve wanted to bask in forever. It was something so soft and genuine, something meant for him alone. 

Though he knew he probably should get up and ask about the medicine again, he did not want to move. Moving meant getting up, and he would have to leave his comfortable spot where it was so warm and safe, and he would not have James gaze at him like this anymore. He figured it was only a meaningless pain in his head, the ghost of an injury he had already healed from, he could get over that. He has had much worse, and this would make James more happy anyway. And if he could make James happy, well, what else was there to want? 

There was a low hum, and James let out a breathy chuckle, smoothing a hand down the side of Steve’s face, and really– if Steve had been able to purr, like had seen and heard Alpine do, he would have. He would have been rumbling this entire time. James pressed a quick kiss to the side of his head, taking a deep breath after to ready his words. "Let’s get you some ibuprofen then, hm? After that, I’ll carry you to bed, how about that?"

"You’re silly," Steve answered, letting out something of a half-snort in amusement. He put his hands on James’ shoulder, looking the other in his eyes. Curiosity gleamed back, and Steve nearly swallowed his tongue. Had he...? _Spoken too-_ \- No. James was not like that. He could say what he meant. Knowing he was allowed to, Steve still made sure to frame his words carefully, and to put the right tone to his voice as to not interrupt the moment. "You can’t lift me."

"I did it before, remember?" James replied, reminding him so helpfully. Right. In the warehouse, when Steve had been trembling and sick and out of his mind, James had carried him off. "Or did you forget how strong I am? Got a metal arm and everything."

"But I’m heavy."

"Not as heavy as you should be." As if to prove his right, James curled his arms around Steve’s frame, tugging his body to put one leg at either side, and then he stood up with the sudden, smooth flow of his legs and chest. Steve let out a small squeak, wrapping his legs around James’ waist, holding on tightly. James let out a huff of laughter. "See? No problem. You’re too light, _kotya_ , remind me to feed you more."

A bubble of laughter escaped Steve’s lips, more gleefully than he had expected. He thought back of the meals James had been giving him at least _three times a day_. They were full meals, fresh and heated, healthy and good. Usually, to him and he was used, breakfast was enough to last him till dinner, but now he got lunch as well. 

Squirming a little in the hold, he turned his head sideways to look at James, all while being carried out of the room. "If you feed me more I will explode."

"I’m not particularly worried," came the answer.

Somewhere, he felt like he should make more of a fuss about James carrying him, but it was _warm_ . In the hold he was warm, solid, he was _there_ , and Steve could not bring himself to care, not right now. Not when the bad voice echoed through his head, telling him to stop crying and man up. Not when his arm tingled right where the bone had once been broken a long time ago. Not after he had snapped awake from a time nothing he said mattered– from a time _he_ didn’t matter.

At least now he would not make a fool out of himself trailing after James like a lost dog, which was something he was glad about. 

Therefore, he let himself be carried back – a walk that was not quite lengthy as James’ conference room was not too far from the private part of his house – staying pliantly in James’ arms until they went through the bedroom door and he was set down on the bed. It dipped in, but not too much, and Steve sighed a little as he sat, though he did not lay down on his back or side. James reached for the covers, but Steve did obstruct him, pushing the blankets back with his feet, giving James a look with a certain stubborn attitude in his eyes. 

"If you are not well, you should rest," James said, not looking the least put off by any of it- something that never ceased to amaze Steve. He could do all these little things and _nothing_ happened. He could push away the blankets, jut up his chin, take something from the fridge, grab a cup, pick up a book. He could do all those things, and James never once got angry. 

Steve turned around a little, grabbing the book that lay on his pillow and putting it on the nightstand. There was a cup of water beside it, and a digital clock. Sitting cross-legged on the soft mattress, Steve tilted his head back up at James, now allowing the other man to tug up the blankets to his waist. He did his best to put on a sad face, pouting his bottom lip a little. "But when I lie down you’ll leave. Can you sit beside me for a while? If you’re not too busy?"

James let out a soft chuckle, lips curling up to a sweet smile, "Of course, dove. Let me just get some painkillers for you."

The door was left ajar when James went out, and he most likely headed for the kitchen. Steve hoped he would bring a glass of water along as well. Lifting his arm, he smoothed the fingers of his hand down the skin, feeling the ghost of what had once been a tear in the bone beneath. He remembered it well. How it had hurt, and how it had been brushed aside. There was little time to understand the gravity before he had healed once more, and could be sent out again.

It was not normal. 

Garrett kept him because of it, because he was not normal. Kept him like a dog in a cage, kicking the small box to make him grow vicious and unpredictable, better to win fights. He was not like that. Not really. He was different inside, and he would show it. He did not have to fight anymore. No more violence, no more pain. He could finally have his peace. And when he was hurt, it was not ignored, invalidated or brushed aside, even when his pain was not visible.

Yes, he would heal, quicker than others, but that didn’t matter, because James would care for him either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *THROWS CONFETTI*
> 
> But pls don't cheer too soon! I posted this chapter because I had it, I'm not back entirely. I have lots and lots of things to do, but I just really wanted to post this <3 It was kinda just there and I thought I had to set the mood again after all the angst and the worry and the tears. I think around a week has past since Steve confessed to what happened (mostly), and they're trying to pick up the little things of life! 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed <3


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